


Sentir

by chalametal



Series: The Sentir Duology [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Empath, Hufflepuff/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, M/M, No Beta, Slow Burn, Werewolf Draco Malfoy, book one of two, emotional legilimency, golden trio only occasionally show up, mostly canon compliant but it does disregard canon when convenient, or when i forget, transfer student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 07:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 60,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21222569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalametal/pseuds/chalametal
Summary: Enoch feels too much & Draco doesn't feel enough.Spotify playlist: 'Sentir' @ yungchild





	1. Chapter 1

Enoch hates crowds. Crowds are unfamiliar territory filled with unfamiliar people and unfamiliar emotions. He can't cope with crowds. Crowds make his belly ache with the amount of butterflies– no, _dragons_ rampaging about inside. Crowds make his mouth tingle with the multitude of tastes—ranging from spicy to sweet, bitter to soft—attacking his tongue. His body receives a plethora of temperatures and sensations; his nose is assaulted with a combination of scents. If he spends to long in them, his head soon begins to hurt and he shuts down. He feels like he's already shutting down.

A cool hand slips around his own, bringing a wash of intense emotion: the tranquility of his mother's, Odeda Desrosiers, own herbal tea taste. Dragging his eyes away from the sea of people in front of him, Enoch looks up at his mother, a confident woman who keeps her dark locks tied up in a loose bun and always, when out, has red lipstick painted across her lips (the same brand too, imported from France). These cherry red lips curl into a comforting smile when they make eye contact. He can feel her purposefully sending waves of comfort, which feels like that perfect temperature, towards him. Slowly, his breathing drops to a normal speed—he hadn't even realised he was hyperventilating.

"We don't have to do this, if you don't feel up to it." Enoch shakes his head, determined. If he doesn't do it now, then how will he know he can survive a school full of teens with a hormonally heightened emotional range. He needs to do this, to prove he can—both to himself and his parents who stand on either side of him, protecting him from the onslaught of shoppers going about their business at Diagon Alley, another place Enoch has never been to before. But, he supposes, he hasn't been to many wizarding places.

Enoch was born of a magic mother and a non-magic father... A muggle, he thinks Odeda called them, making him a half-blood. However, even half the percentage of magic in his blood was strong enough to bless (curse?) him with magic abilities that apparently aren't typical for other witches and wizards. For as long as he can remember, Enoch has had the ability to sense others emotions; to him, everyone radiates a combination of sensations that represent how they're feeling. His mother is generally herbal tea, and his father, Alistair Desrosiers, is popping candy. The old man who visited them a few weeks ago, as he and Enoch's parents organised the younger male's late entrance to school, was an odd mixture of musk sticks and the faint smell of vinegar.

In contrast, the sharp smell of vinegar, the smell of fear, permeates strongly from the crowd around him. The brunet assumes You-Know-Who (though he barely does know who) is the cause of this, as his mother had explained his current threat while stressing the importance of staying safe. Most families around him are rushing about, trying to get their tasks down here as quick as efficiently as possible. In comparison, the Desrosiers family seem to be dawdling in comparison, hardly in any rush.

"Is– Is that thing flying?" Alistair exclaims as a product in the window of a shop captures his attention. Enoch grins as he watches his mother rolls her eyes, exasperation beginning to seep through. Since arriving, his father has been completely enraptured by everything he's seen; this is almost a completely foreign world to both him and Enoch, who was raised with only a vague knowledge of the magic world. He was, however, taught the same lessons as the students his age, and received tutorage from Sam Taylor, a family friend who studied at Hogwarts but ended up becoming a high school maths teacher at a non-magic school.

"Al, _Mon amour_, please don't be so obvious." Odeda scolds softly, slipping into French, probably to reduce the chance of them being overheard. "We're trying to _hide _the fact you're a muggle; some people wouldn't be too happy that we've brought you here."

"Muggle, right." Alistair responds bitterly, smile curling downwards into a frown. His wife places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze.

"You know that means nothing. In fact, you're better than some of the wizards out there." Enoch's father responds with the return of a small smile, immediately distracted by yet another marvel of the magical world. A few metres down the street, contrasting starkly against the rest of the street, is a brightly coloured store that seems to—understandably—be gathering a crowd. As they approach the store, the taste of sugar grows stronger, until it's overpowering the vinegar, and Enoch can appreciate this store's existence.

"You didn't tell me about this store." The youngest Desrosiers tells his mother, also slipping into the French language for comfort, as he turns back to look at her. She too seems amazed by the shop's presence.

"I didn't know it was here," confesses the older woman.

"Who cares? Let's just go inside." When Alistair speaks French, despite his fluency, his American accent is still as clear as day. It's thick, almost to the point where it could cause an initial impression of someone less fluent, but he doesn't make any attempt to lose it—claims it's a part of his identity. And Enoch would be inclined to agree; his accent, a weird mix of American, French and a little sprinkling of British, ensures that no matter what language he speaks, it doesn't sound _quite_ right. But he too wouldn't change that.

Much of the further exasperation of his wife, the older male soon rushes up to the store, pushing through the small crowd outside. Enoch soon follows suit, mother close behind muttering something about wasting time.

Inside, the sugary sweet happiness is stronger—so strong that it's like a tsunami crashing over him and he's forced to take a physical step back. Pausing near the door, Odeda watching carefully in concern, Enoch takes a moment to adjust to the overload of happiness. While the brunet definitely has a sweet tooth, in this form, he can't handle the sugar; its strong presence fills him with the strong need to vomit. His temple begins to throb, a sharp pain punctuating the smaller signs of an incoming headache. Leaving against the doorway, potentially blocking it for anyone wishing to come in or out, Enoch tries to take control. Eyes scrunched tightly shut, he tries to block everything else out, but this leaves him focusing on his thoughts.

If he can't handle these emotions in this smaller area, how can he possibly handle a whole school? Maybe this is actually a terrible idea, maybe he shouldn't be going to school. He was perfectly capable of doing his O.W.Ls from home, why not his N.E.W.Ts as well? _Oh god_, this was a terrible idea. He can't do this—this was destined to fail from the start. _How did he not see this?_

Odeda continues to watch, trying to determine if she needs to step in or not. Enoch is essentially only being held up by the doorway he's slumped against, fingernails digging dangerously into the sleeves of his thin jacket. Face clearly contorted into a mix of pain and concentration, it's a wonder no one has asked if he's alright yet. He's all but hyperventilating again, controlled breathing exercises failing him. But underneath all that, she can see he's trying, and she doesn't want to constantly be saving him when she _knows _he can do it.

Suddenly, someone bumps into Enoch, knocking him both literally and figuratively out of his thoughts. With the brief contact, despite the clothing barrier, brings a muted burst of emotions: suddenly, beneath the sugary sweet is the smell of incoming rain—a threat, of some turbulent suppressed emotion. The brunet's snap open and upwards to make contact with a male with messy dark hair and a rather eye-grabbing scar on his forehead curiously in the shape of a lightning bolt. Couldn't be natural, Enoch thinks as he peers at it.

"Sorry," says the stranger, an apologetic expression spread across his face. Before the younger can reply, Lightning Scar has already left to greet a pair of identical red heads in uniforms (presumably workers here). Enoch watches him as he goes, grateful for the distraction his bump brought.

"That's Harry Potter—the boy who lived and, apparently, the Chosen One." Odeda whispers to her son, eyes following the same boy. "From what I've heard, he's a lovely boy. Unfortunate, everything that's happened to him. Misfortune just seems to follow him."

Enoch wonders if they could be friends, given they both possess something that causes them to be separated from the crowd, but he brushes the thought off. There's no way someone like The Harry Potter would consider befriending him; it'd be like his crush on Leonardo DiCaprio being returned—_impossible_.

The trio look around the shop for a little longer and Alistair leaves with a few things, though he is also forced to swear he won't use them on his Muggle friends, and they head further down the alleyway. Once again, the street is packed, causing them to push their way through. Enoch, embarrassingly, keeps his hand tightened around his mother's the entire time, clinging to the calmness she radiates; he wishes he could possess even half the calmness she has.

"To save time we lost," The dark haired woman sends a pointed glance at her husband, "I'm going to go collect your books while you and your father go look at pets. Now remember, nothing too crazy, please. I don't think the school would appreciate that."

"Sure thing, Maman." Enoch gives a small smile before he loosens his grip on his mother's hand and follows his father. This is, of course, before Odeda calls out to them, pointing out that neither of them actually know where to go. She quickly gives them directions as simple as possible and once again they are on their way. Enoch switches his grip to his father's hand and, for the entire walk, his mouth is filled with the crackling of raspberry popping candy. But at least it's not vinegar.   
  
  
  
  


Enoch likes animals. Animals are simple, with plain emotions. Animals bring him calm with their singular emotions. It's the whole reason they're buying a pet, as some form of anchor during the times when emotions might get overwhelming.

It takes only a few minutes for the empath to be charmed by a pet, utterly sold. While walking around, father at his side, Enoch spots a small group of ferrets in one of the cages. One of them, a small whiteone, immediately approaches where he stands, pink paws reaching up to the side of the cage. He reaches out, stroking it lightly through the cage. In response to this action, he receives a brief flash of emotions: a vision, _of human/boy/friend, staring into the home/cage/prison_. Then, quickly withdrawing his hand, Enoch pauses.

While the emotions always trigger his senses, he's never experienced one influencing his sight before, not like that. This is something new, confusing, but Enoch takes it as some sort of sign and looks to his father.

"I want that one."


	2. Chapter 2

Enoch's free hand remains against his ferret's fur, who titters anxiously from his shoulder. The white animal's claws are digging through his shirt—an old one, a comfortable one, with a print so faded it's hard to make out exactly what it once was—as he ensures he isn't pushed off during all the commotion. The ferret, whose name remains Ferret as he has given no indication of what he'd like for a name, seems to reflect his owner's own feelings, as they grip tightly to one another.

"You could skip the train, if you want." Odeda suggests as she once again watches her son, taking notice of the way his body has tensed and his eyes refuse to stay still. He's licking his lips again, repeatedly, which she's always taken as a sign of taste overload. But still, he quickly shakes his head.

"I'm fine." Odeda doesn't need an empathetic power to tell her son is really freaking out, and probably not fine. But she can see that blaze of determination—the same his father gets, and she will admit to possessing—in his eyes and immediately knows there's no point arguing. He's made his decision, and will stick with it for as long as he can.

"Write me letters, okay? Heaps of them." Alistair says as they begin saying their farewells, pulling Enoch into a tight hug, "And smuggle me back some of the wizard food." A muffled chuckle comes from within the older man's shoulder. They continue to hug for a few more moments, only separated by a prompting nudge from Odeda. "I'll miss you, kiddo. Look after yourself."

Then, Odeda pulls Enoch into a hug and the young boy knows he's going to miss the herbal tea. It brings a brief moment of quiet amongst all the noise of emotions, and he drinks it in. His mother whispers words of encouragement into his hair, before placing on final kiss on the top of his head.

"Now go get on the train," The dark haired woman smiles, giving him a light shove in that direction. As they both wave goodbye, Enoch reluctantly pushes himself through the crowd of parting families and makes his way to the carriage entrance. He takes one last glance back at his smiling parents, both still waving, and his ferret squeaks in encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Enoch does it; he boards the train and leaves the family he's never actually left before.   
  
  
  


For a while, Enoch thinks he might spend the train trip in the sole company of Ferret. Which wouldn't be so bad, if he didn't feel so terrifyingly lonely that he genuinely desires the mess of emotions. His stomach is still churning, and he knows this belongs to him. There's no one around for him to get a reading of and it's only on rare occasions that his powers work through walls. But, fortunately, the carriage door slides open and a face peers in. Warmth radiates through the carriage, originating from the girl intruding.

"Can I sit here?" She asks, pointing at the seat across from the male. The brunet hurries to nod his head, and then wonders if he looks too eager—too desperate. Ferret, who is curled up asleep on his lap, gets two nervous hands scratching absentmindedly at his fur, rolling the individual strands against each other underneath his fingers. The pet opens his eyes for a moment, before deciding to ignore his owner.

The stranger doesn't seem to notice or care about the speed of Enoch's response as she smiles widely with a, "_Great!_", and opens the door up a little wider for her to squeeze through. She's soon settled across from Enoch, slouched slightly as she gets relaxed, while the younger male remains sitting uncomfortable straight.

"I'm Gee," The girl introduces herself, hand extended. Immediately, Enoch internally cringes, bracing himself for the incoming onslaught. Skin touches skin and the brunet experiences a flash of the warmth of lazing in the sun, the taste of fresh oranges and their sticky juice, and expensive perfume. And then it's gone, replaced by the comforting quiet of Ferret's sleepiness. "My name's actually Gertrude but that's a terrible name so please don't call me that, _ever_. I will hex you."

"I'm Enoch," The younger male mumbles as he fidgets uncomfortably, fingers once again running through Ferret's fur. The pet just sighs, rolling over slightly so his human can get a better spot on his belly. Gee's expression brightens a fraction.

"Gee and E—we match!" Enthusiasm radiates from this girl in a way that's almost overwhelming, causing Enoch to retreat further into his seat. He's never experienced such a bright company before—she'd rival even his father's disposition. Watching her, watching the way a smile that looks natural and not forced stays ever present on her face in a way that Enoch swears would make his cheeks her, the brunet is amazed—possibly even in awe. He'd like to be like this girl.

"So," Gee breaks through the silence as she leans forward, dark curls of hair bouncing lightly as she rubs the back of her head to remove potential seat hair, "What year are you in?"

"Uh, sixth?" His voice is laced with uncertainty though he knows for a fact he's in his sixth year—it's been mentioned enough times that it's been drilled into his head. The boy quickly clears his throat, nods, and in a slightly more confident voice repeats himself, "Yeah, sixth year."

But his answer causes Gee's brow to furrow in apparent confusion, only confirmed by a fuzzy inability to focus that he's always associated with that emotion. Immediately, Enoch attempts to recall what he has said, to try and confirm that he has indeed said sixth year and he definitely is in sixth year—isn't he? There's always the chance he could be wrong. Maybe he should have been less certain when he spoke.

"But I'm in that year," The dark haired girl states, brow still furrowed, "And I certainly don't remember you."

Relief floods through the empath's body, but it doesn't quite dampen the butterflies' wings. He nods briefly, acknowledging her statement, "I'm new."

"In year six?" Enoch nods again, feeling a verbal 'no' unnecessary. "Are you from another country? Oh! Did you study at Ilvermony? Or..." Gee chuckles as she pauses for a moment. "Yeah, I don't know any other schools—oh, except of Beaubaxton and Durmstrang, of course."

"I– I didn't go to school." The brunet can feel his cheeks growing warm from the temperature the girl is radiating, but thankfully that decreases slightly when he seems to provide the less exciting response. He feels guilty, wishing he could give her the correct response.

"So you just, started? How does that work? Do you even know magic?" Gee frowns again. "Hogwarts isn't _really_ letting just anyone in, are they? You're not a Squib, are you? Or a muggle?"

Is Enoch supposed to address all these questions? He doesn't know. His mouth opens for a second, and then closes. How does he answer this? Frowning, he tries again. Then, he just shakes his head—_no_. Ferret nudged the brunet's hand, which stopped patting him a while ago, and slides underneath it. The animal settles again, but the quiet brings him comfort, helps clear his head.

"I was homeschooled." Enoch can already preempt her next question—_why?_—so he starts thinking. Does he explain it all, or just bits of it? He's not sure if it's supposed to be a secret or not. "I'm not good with people. They... I get too nervous to function properly. Maman and Papa thought I probably wouldn't have been able to learn properly too."

Comprehension bursts from the girl in a dizzying wave as she nods, the smile spreading across her lips again. A small noise of understanding leaves her lips, which she follows with, "I understand."

Silence follows this. Sitting there, awkwardly, Enoch opens his mouth and takes a short, sharp intake of breath as though he's going to say something. But instead his mouth shuts, and nothing is said. Silence continues for a few more seconds, getting dangerously close to a minute's silence. The brunet look like he's going to speak again, but all that follows is a frustrated frown. Quietly, he picks at Ferret's fur.

"So, have you been sorted into a house yet?"

The empath gives a short nod, "Hufflepuff." With this answer, Gee's smile grows wider—how? Enoch does not know.

"Me too! That's great then; you've already got a friend who can get you settled." A small smile hesitantly curls across the younger's lips. While it does nothing to rival the constant smile on Gee's lips, it does certainly make Enoch feel quite pleasant. "There's plenty of nice people in Hufflepuff. You'll get settled quickly."

"Thank you," mumbles the empath, though his words carry so much more gratitude than he can convey. _Thank you for sitting here, for being nice, and for talking to me even though you don't know me and I'm terrible at talking. Thank you for calling yourself my friend even though we just met, for making me feel like starting school might not be so bad._

But because Enoch dare not say all of that, he just smiles. And pats his Ferret.   
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  


After arriving at Hogwarts, they all file into the Great Hall, where they sit at their house's table and catch up with one another. Amongst the excited crowd, Enoch is bumped between people, experiencing snapshots of a multitude of emotions, before Gee thankfully grabs him by the wrist—overpowering the chorus of emotional noise with her summery oranges and sunshine—and leads him to two free seats.

"First dinner is always great." Gee claims as she takes her seat, so confident in her belief that Enoch believes her without having even tried the food. He hopes it's good—he'd hate to be surviving off bad food for a whole year. He already knows it won't be _as good_ as his mother's cooking, but he'll settle for _just good_.

As a buzzing chatter settles over the room, Gee begins greeting her friends that sit down around her. They're all introduced to Enoch as well, but there's so many new names and faces that he's unable to retain them all. He just smiles, answers when he's spoken to, and continues to take in his surroundings. One of the people he meets laughs when he sees Ferret, nudging Gee as he says, "Remember when Malfoy was turned into a ferret?" Enoch is then filled with concern, wondering how frequently a student is transformed into an animal. The others, however, just see it as one thoroughly amusing joke and the whole table bursts out in raucous laughter.

Unable to help himself, his gaze continually returns to the ceiling, enchanted to look like the sky, and the candles that float above it. A bit dramatic, he thinks, but still amazing. He's literally never seen anything like it—unless of course you count the glass ceiling of his grandparents' greenhouse back in France. But even that, in all its glory, barely holds a candle to this. He feels like the first years making their way in—in awe, amazed that such a place isn't the product of his hopeful dreams. It almost blocks out the others' emotions.

First years get sorted into their houses differently to the way Enoch: they sit in front of the whole school, in front of the burning, curious stares, and have the strange talking hat placed on their heads. Some sit for what feels like minutes, with cheeks burning red with embarrassment, before they're assigned to a house and others are chosen within the second it's placed on their head. Enoch, on the other hand, was sorted in the privacy of his own home when the headmaster (he soon realises) visited, and was almost immediate. Enoch thinks he prefers his own Sorting.

Soon after, everyone is digging into their meals, taking from the range of food that appears on their tables. Enoch takes a piece of chicken at Gee's recommendation and bites into it, chewing slowly and carefully. _Just good_ would be one way of describing this chicken; _not his mother's_, another. Not even his father's, who, despite attempts to develop his skills in the kitchen, never quite achieved the same level of deliciousness as Odeda Desrosiers. (He makes really good desserts, however—probably reflective of his taste for them).

But, Enoch can't handle the thought of going to bed hungry and sticks to eating some vegetable pastries placed directly in front of him, like some sort of sign. In a pleasant twist, he finds himself enjoying these more than anticipated.

Dessert, naturally, follows. Enoch grabs a apple tart from the platter in front of him and eats that quietly. He continues to watch Gee and the others around him converse, while trying to keep his focus primarily on how the apple tart tastes, and ignoring the many other flavours interrupting his meal, like he does usually at home. But it's a lot harder than at home, where he only has two other people compared to the probably hundreds here.

Over dessert, the girl sitting beside Gee—a blonde that hugged the other girl the second she saw her—leans across and whispers to her friend, "By the way, I love your perfume. Is it new?" And Gee nods, telling her it was a souvenir from her parents' trip overseas, and proceeds to recount a few stories from said trip. But Enoch zones out, confused. He'd thought the perfume was an aspect of her emotions, a sign of something that he can't label. But if this girl can smell it– well, it's highly unlikely she's an empath with the exact same powers as Enoch, and Gee has clearly wearing some.

Now he's not sure what other times he might have confused emotions with real things.   
  
  
  
  


Hufflepuff dorms are by the kitchen. Which he already knew, it's just nice to be able to actually _see_ where they are. Despite this place being a castle, he feels like maybe he won't yet as lost as he thought he might.

The prefect explains to the first years—and, unknowingly, Enoch himself—the rules of the dorms and where everything is located. Looking around, the brunet can see younger students eager to go to bed after an exciting first evening. But, before anyone can leave to their beds, the prefect makes one final announcement, "We have welcome brownies," and he casts a spell to conjure up the platters of freshly prepared brownies from the nearby kitchen. (Unfortunately, he miscounted, conjuring one platter too many, and, somewhere in the world, someone just lost their brownies).

Everyone takes a brownie, chattering happily amongst themselves. The sweetness in the air increases, making the empath reluctant to take even more sugar in the form of a brownie, but before he can say anything, Gee has put one in his hand. He eats it, slowly, and immediately misses his father's brownies. Despite the sugary sweetness of everyone else's happiness, Enoch can't help but feel very, very sad.

"Alright?" Gee asks, nudging the younger lightly with her shoulder. A burst of oranges combine with the brownie, creating a Jaffa-like aftertaste.

"Yeah, it's good." To prove it, Enoch takes another bite of his chocolate dessert. Gee smiles slightly.

"No, I mean are _you_ alright?"

"Oh." Enoch takes another bite and nods. "Yeah."

"You know you can tell me, if you're not. We're friends now, remember?" Enoch nods again. Maybe, eventually, he'll take her up on that offer. But not today.


	3. Chapter 3

When Enoch wakes up, he experiences a moment of disorientation, forgetting where he is. His bedroom at home is silent, the way he likes it, but here he can hear the sounds of someone else's breathing. In fact, he can hear numerous people breathing. Along with this, he can feel their drowsy emotions already filling his sense, those these mimic his own—reluctance, tiredness. As he slowly opens his eyes, curious as to what is around him, he's greeted with an overload of yellow and black and he sighs. _That's right_. He's at Hogwarts. _Not home_. He sighs.

The other students are starting to get up, he notices as he glances around. There are a few enviously still asleep, but the majority are either lying in bed with expressions that seem to be questioning why they do this to themselves or up and dressed and ready to leave for breakfast. Reluctantly, Enoch makes himself a part of the latter group.

Uniforms provide a problem for the brunet. Never in his life has he had to wear one– oh wait, no, there was a time. For a year, after watching a movie, the idea of being in the Boys Scouts had really caught his fancy; for that year he'd worn a uniform. But that was years ago and he hasn't worn one since. So, immediately, he isn't used to the uncomfortable practicalness of it all; none is designed for style, instead designed to ensure no one stands out _too much _as everyone looks acceptably neat. But Enoch thinks he probably sticks out with his uneven tie that looks nothing like his housemates' and the awkwardness that he wears his wizarding robes with. Why must wizards insist on robes? Why can't they be like normal people and just wear normal clothes?

Once the ordeal of dressing is dealt with, the empath wanders out into the common room. Now not wanting to sleep, Enoch is able to take in the appearance of the house a little better: the first thing he notices is _plants_, lots and lots of plants. He doesn't even recognise most of the plants, other than that they're definitely magical. A portrait of Helga Hufflepuff is also nestled amongst the plants, a very pretty lady smiling from within her frame. She moves, a fact that might have frightened Enoch had he not already owned a photo of two primary school friends at home that move as well.

In the centre of the common room, however, stands Gee. She smiles when she sees him, walking over like she was waiting for him. Enoch doesn't believe that's possible—surely she has other friends she could go to breakfast with. But, as she greets him with a good morning and, "I've been waiting to you," Enoch finds it hard to deny.

So he just asks why. And the older girl laughs.

"Because, we're friends now. And I like to eat meals with my friends." She shrugs like it's no big deal but Enoch is touched she considered it. It makes him smile, just a little. The girl beckons and Enoch falls in step beside her, listening as she tells him about the dream she had. He only half-listens, still trying to wake completely before he's forced to face the world.   
  
  
  


After breakfast, which consisted of a few slices of toast and a tall glass of juice for Enoch, the head of the House—a rather kind looking Professor Sprout, who looks as though she just stepped out of the garden, with patches of dirt scattered across her and under her nails—comes around to the Hufflepuff table, handing out the timetables. Each student has to be checked to ensure they received the marks required. The brunet fidgets restlessly with his piece of paper, already knowing he won't be able to continue Herbology; it only makes it worse that Professor Sprout teaches that particular subject, and it seems to be this House's subject.

Ferret sighs softly, warm breath hitting Enoch's neck as the boy grows more nervous. The professor has almost reached him and all he can think about is how miserably he failed Herbology. She'll probably hate him forever, or kick him out of the House– or just openly judge his inadequacy in such a way that encourages everyone else to do the same. He'll be ostracised– Ferret sighs again, now dragging his claws lightly against the bare skin on the boy's neck. The contact affects his vision again and Enoch loses concentration: _human/boy/child needs to stop/breathe/calm. Boy/child/friend is getting predator/other students' attention._

"Desrosiers?" Enoch returns to reality slightly calmer, but also to the sight of Professor Sprout standing in front of him. Up close, he can smell the earthy smell of gardening but he can no longer tell for sure if that's an emotion or her scent; he can, however, feel the warmth of the sun radiating from her and that makes him feel a bit calmer. He hands over his sheet with a mumbled apology, now empty hand raising to scratch Ferret appreciatively.

Anxiously, he watches as she reads his results off the crumpled paper. He can tell when she reaches the Herbology mark, as her brow furrows into a frown and she looks up at him. For a moment, the dizzying lack of concentration radiates from her but he senses no judgement.

"Who did you study Herbology with?"

"My mother and Samantha Taylor." The grey-haired witch nods slowly.

"Well, your marks say you wouldn't be able to cope with the demand," The brunet gulps, cheeks feeling like they're blazing, and he nods. The professor smiles again, "But you're welcome into the greenhouses at any time and I'd be happy to teach you a few things on the side."

If Enoch's cheek weren't already bright red from embarrassment, they are definitely now just from the warm kindness that radiates from the professor. He gives her a crooked smile, filled with relief that things didn't go as bad as he'd expected, and thanks her.

"Everything else, however, you're fine." Then, the timetable in Professor Sprout's hand fills with words and it's handed to Enoch. He glances down at it, while Gee looks over his shoulder at the subjects he's doing.

"Alchemy? I didn't even know they _had_ Alchemy." She comments, reading the firstclass on his list. The brunet nods slowly.

"They weren't sure if there would be a class—I suppose they got enough students." In response, Gee hums and glances at her own timetable. Then, she looks back to Enoch's, clearly comparing. 

"Our core subjects are the same—except Potions, I failed that." Gee grins. "Thought Snape would be teaching again so I did terribly on purpose. Of course they get a new teacher the following year." The empath snickers, both at her statement and the bitter lemon rind resentment radiating from her. "Anyway, I have a break first up, so I'll meet you at Dada."

"Dada?"

Gee nods, "Defence Against the Dark Arts. We have it second." With a small wave, the dark haired girl then walks off in the direction of a large set of doors. Only to return moments later, a sheepish grin resting on her lips, "I forgot you don't know where you are. C'mon, I'll take you to your classroom."

And, once again, Enoch is following Gee aimlessly through the halls of Hogwarts. As they move through other students going to their classes, the brunet keeps his focus on Gee's oranges, using that as an anchor against the others' emotional noise.   
  
  
  
  


"Ooh, this is a small class." Gee comments as they reach the classroom. A few students are gathered outside the door, chatting happily amongst themselves as they wait for the professor. The girl pats on Enoch on the shoulder, giving him a brief burst of oranges. "Smaller classes should make it easier to make friends though. You'll find someone."

The brunet nods, though he still doubts her confidence in him. After all, he has absolutely no experience in friend-making, and all of these students clearly already of friends. He might just go stand to the side.

Thankfully, the teacher arrives not long after, briskly marching up to the door and then inside. The students trickle in slowly after her, still maintaining their chatter. Enoch takes a seat in the second row, wanting to sit up the front but not wanting to look like a nerd or teacher's pet. A pair of students sit a few seats down from him, but say nothing to him. Desperate for something to preoccupy himself with, in an attempt to minimise the awkwardness he assumes he must look like, he gets his notebook from the satchel he brought with him—though he's noticing most students just carry their books, _goddamn_, why must he be so organised?

Now thoroughly organised with his notebook in front of him and quill and inkwell set up on the desk, Enoch finds himself with nothing to do again. His fingers automatically find Ferret, hidden in amongst the collar of his robes, which he scratches absentmindedly as he gazes around the room quickly. There really is barely any students in the classroom, which is small as it is. Alchemy must have only _just_ got enough students—maybe twenty? He doesn't bother counting.

A few more minutes pass and the teacher clears her throat. Enoch's attention snaps directly to her, focusing properly on her for the first time. The professor is a spindly woman, like a spider, with blonde hair tied back into a tight bun and a lack of expression on her face; it's impossible for Enoch to determine an age, as she seems simultaneously old and young.

Once silent has settled across the class, a smile that drastically changes her appearance from off-putting to welcoming stretches across her lips and she greets the class, "Welcome to Alchemy. I'm Professor Moro, and I'll be taking you through Alchemy this year—possibly next year too, if you continue. It's good to be teaching this subject; we almost didn't have enough students but, fortunately, some students must have changed their minds at the last minute." Professor Moro moves from behind the front desk to in front of it, leaning against it casually. "About the subject: we'll be focusing on the four main elements of nature and transmutation of the elements and substances. To some, this can also be a spiritual journey, but that won't be taught or assessed." The spider-like woman grins, amused by her own joke. Enoch doesn't get it but he smiles anyway, hoping he too looks at least mildly amused. "Also, all classwork—especially practicals—will be done in pairs which you will decide now. Choose wisely, as these groups will _only _be changed in very rare, justifiable circumstances and you will be in these groups until the end of the year."

Oh dear god, _why_? Why _groups_ of all things?

With one clap of her hands, Moro gets the students up out of their seats, urging them, "Now, pick your partner and sit back down with them."

After gathering the things he'd so painstakingly set out, Enoch rises from his chair and shuffles to the side of the room. He watches as other students find their friends as partner up, taking seats, and he just knows he's going to be left until the end. He hugs his book tightly to his chest, willing someone to ask him if he'd be their partner, for someone to just reveal themselves. He doesn't want to work by himself—he doesn't want to be that last pick.

And then, as if spurred by his internal begging, Fate answers: from in amongst the small group of students finding partners, Enoch notices one boy still sitting down. His gaze is buried in some book, an expression of boredom resting on his thin face as though he hasn't noticed or doesn't care about the looks of aversion students are giving him as they look for a partner. Everyone walks wide circles around him, some even muttering to their friend afterwards. The blond doesn't even seem to be trying to find a partner, so Enoch musters some courage to go find him. Inhaling slowly and deeply, the brunet takes the first steps towards the pale boy, willing himself to take the next few steps. The butterflies are back and a voice in his head is screaming at him to turn back, reminding him that _this is a terrible idea!_ But it's this or lonerdom, so Enoch will take the risk.

Up close, all the empath can taste is sour lemon candy he used to survive off during primary school, but at an intensity that burns his mouth. The brunet almost gags.

So engrossed in his book, or skilled at ignoring others, the blond doesn't notice that someone has approached him. Enoch opens his mouth to speak, to announce his presence, but finds he doesn't have the confidence to form the words—he _can't _form the words. So, instead, he reaches out to tap the reading boy's shoulder. With a shaking hand, he tries to lightly tap it, but aims incorrectly; his hand lands at the top of his shoulder, fingers brushing against his neck. And that's enough.

The skin contact causes an intense rush of emotions, bursting past the sugary, artificial lemons: brine and vinegar washes over his tongue, salt mingling with sour, the smell of petrichor fills his nose, a scent he's never experienced before and can't label. Beneath that, almost teasingly, rests a soothing honey, warming the coolness of his emotions. But, with the overload of negative emotions, Enoch can't help but feel an intense amount of sympathy. No one, especially not a boy his age, should have that combination of emotions; the empath wishes he could reduce some of that burden. This wish seems to only increase the pain the brunet is experiencing secondhand, filling him with actual emotions—anger, sadness, fear, loneliness; he's drowning in the emotions. There's a pain in his chest and tears threaten to prick his own eyes but he blinks them back. This is new, and the unfamiliarity of this only makes the emotions worse.

Breaking the brief contact, Enoch's fingers go to his temple, where the warning signs of a migraine seem to be emerging. The emotions lessen until they are nothing but a memory—a strong, and rather painful memory. Whatever he just did, his body doesn't seem to like it.

But the tension in the classmate's shoulders seem to lessen slightly, or maybe that's just wishful thinking. At the first contact, his head snaps upwards to Enoch with a defensively angry expression on his face. But, with his shoulders, his expression softens for a second too, with a brief flash of confusion, before returning to the cold emptiness.

"I don't know you, so you're either the transfer people are talking about or someone equally unimportant." The blond notes, empty eyes raking the brunet's appearance. Everything about him seems cold: a thin, pale face filled with dark shadows surround his dead, angry eyes and no positive expression is evident on his face. "Either way, keep your hands off me. These robes are new and I'd rather not get them dirty so early."

"I– Sorry." Enoch wants to bite back, but after what he just experienced he can't bring himself to do so. "I just came over to see if you want to be partners." He doubts it now, but it's still worth a shot.

"I don't need other, less competent students holding me back." The boy says, but the brine Enoch can taste suggests otherwise.

"Malfoy and– uh, who are you?" _So this boy is the ferret..._

"Desrosiers, Professor." Moro nods, while Malfoy lets out what could be called some sort of amused laugh.

"Take a seat next to Malfoy, Desrosiers; you're the only two left." The brunet nods, now reluctantly taking a seat. He puts his book and writing equipment out again, this time with less effort than previously, and squirms awkwardly. Seeking comfort, he pats the warm body wrapped around his neck.

"You must be Odeda Desrosiers' son then. She's famous around here." Malfoy notes, almost under his breath, once Enoch is settled. A cruel smirk curls across his lip as he delivers his own punchline, "Famous for being a filthy Muggle-lover. She married one, didn't she? From America? In _my_ family, it's practically a sin to taint pure blood like that; I'm surprised her parents didn't disown her."

"Stop talking about her," growls Enoch, now understanding why the other students avoided this one like the plague. For a moment, he's so angry, he forgets about the turmoil rolling around like a dark storm cloud within the boy, so angry he fails to excuse the bitterness.

"I understand," The rude male says and for one stupid second Enoch believes him, "I would want to forget about my mother too, if she was the reason I was a half-blood."

"_Fils d'un furet_." The brunet mutters under his breath, glaring down at his books in attempt to stop himself from retorting further. He can still taste the brine, reminding him that the boy has his reasons—_surely_, he has his reasons. No one is so rude for no reason.

Enoch just hopes he'll be able to survive the year's partnership with this boy without finally snapping, much like he assumes everyone else has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a head's up, when I started writing this, this was my first ff in this fandom and for Draco so I was very nervous and uncomfortable. It takes me a little to settle in and I do eventually get comfortable, but before that Draco's character suffers a little


	4. Chapter 4

Enoch is still burning with annoyance at lunchtime, as he and Gee sit at the Hufflepuff table and eat from the platters of sandwiches. Gazing around, the brunet notes the slightly more casual setting of the Hall compared to the first dinner: he spots a Ravenclaw further down the table, chatting with a Hufflepuff friend, a Gryffindor on the other side. Gazing around the room, he spots similar seating arrangements at other tables-though Slytherin has far less variety amongst their silver and green. While gazing at the table of snakes, Enoch spots the familiar blonde chatting amongst his friends; there's a smile on his face now, but that coldness still rests behind it, proud and detached. The fire burns in his stomach again. While he tries to justify the cold actions of the boy with the emotions and the cause of them, he can't stop the annoyance from bubbling away.

"So what exactly do you want to be?" Gee cuts through his stewing with her question casually, following it with a large-but still somehow refined, as though by magic-bite of her sandwich and the clarification, "After school. What job?"

"Magizoologist," replies Enoch, trying to sound confident in his choice though, really, he isn't. He didn't even know what that occupation was until a few years ago, at a gathering where he was introduced to a famous Newt Scamander. He really should have clued on then, as he met his mother's many famous friends, that she herself would have a reputation. (_But Enoch has never really been known for having a clue_). The male, a writer of one of the book's the brunet had been studying, had signed the younger's copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them_ and, while doing so, inspired him. If this rather awkward male could find a career with animals, then surely Enoch could as well. "What about you?"

"Well, I want to be an Auror." The dark haired girl grins, a slight calculating glint entering her expression. "I heard the pays good, and I don't mind fighting a few bad guys. Only problem would be Potions." The girl shrugs, as though this is no big deal, something she can easily get around. "I'll figure something out. I've heard some doctors get paid decently too."

"Y'know there's more t'life than how well ya get paid?" A male with a thick accent sitting in front of them, who'd been openly listening to their conversation, speaks up. The boy's uniform betrays his house: another Gryffindor. His hair is a mess, as though he looked at it when he woke up this morning and thought to himself, _'Y'know, that'll do'_. And, somehow, it works. His eyes sparkle, softening his features.

"Well, yeah, obviously. But money is power, and that's what I really want."

The Gryffindor raises an eyebrow, "Sounds _ambitious_, Gee." There's a teasing smirk travelling across his lips-the sugary taste in the empath's mouth tells him this is only a joke, clearly about something he lacks the knowledge on. It takes mere seconds for Enoch to feel lost. His gaze travels between the two, head moving like he's watching a rather slow tennis match, brow furrowing deeper and deeper.

"Shut up, Philip," laughs Gee. There's a quiet thud underneath the table and suddenly Philip's face contorts into one of pain. This only makes Gee laugh harder.

"How'd you get into Hufflepuff? You're not nice at all. Slytherin's where you belong." Enoch still feels lost, but he forces himself to chuckle lightly anyway. Better to go along with it than stand out and look like an idiot, he thinks.

"Slytherins don't like Muggle-borns." Gee states plainly, before moving on to introduce the other male to the empath, "E, this is Philip—our oh so daring Gryffindor."

"I'm not that daring. Afraid of my own shadow, that's what Ma says. We don't know how I got into Gryffindor." Philip reaches over and grabs one of the egg salad sandwiches resting on the platter between ham and cheese and roast beef with salad. Then he grabs another, placing both on his plate before digging into the first. Still eating this sandwich, he goes to speak again, "You're Desrosiers, aren't ya? Odeda Desrosiers' son?"

Enoch nods, then frowns, deciding to speak the question that has been bothering him, "How does everyone know Maman?"

"It's 'cause she's famous, innit?" Philip continues, not even giving Gee a chance to speak up. But she definitely tries, mouth opening to form words before the Gryffindor's own fill the space. A slight frown furrows her brow, but Enoch can't sense any drastic change in emotion. "Did all that stuff in America."

"We've all heard stories of your mother in America, helping to bridge the gap between the muggles and wizards. She helped improve the relationship between them, and then married your father-I assume-as some sort of protest or demonstration." Gee finally elaborates, once she's given a chance to speak. "I don't think the us Brits minded, but the American wizards... they've always been a bit warier of muggles, haven't they?"

Philip nods, "Caused a lot of noise here. We—or, our parents—heard about the commotion Mrs Desrosiers had caused. American wizards weren't happy at all."

"I can't believe you didn't know this." Gee chuckles, drinking from her glass of orange juice. She shakes her head, the disbelief in it reinforcing her words. "I mean, they're not as famous as _some_," A not so subtle glance travels to the Gryffindor table, "but there's still a story."

"Guess they just never thought it was important... I was raised away from the magic world, so that's probably why." Enoch tries to justify his parents' reasoning for failing to share their apparently famous love story. However, he still feels slightly upset that he's been left out, that others have known more about it than he did, _their own son_.  
  
  


After lunch, Enoch has his first Care of Magical Beasts class. A bit too eager-and far too worried about being late-the empath leaves early. Wandering down to the small hut near the forest, he realises few students are heading down as well. He's probably very early, but unwilling to turn around yet. At worst, he'll let Ferret have a run around in the grass; Ferret would probably like that after being cooped up on Enoch's shoulders.

The brunet reaches the hut, which seems to be the meeting spot for the class, at the same time as a very large male exits from it. The man is all raggedy, with a large, bushy beard and clothes of shades of brown cloth. Enoch is uncomfortable to note that what look like dead rats hang limply from his belt. It's a slightly chilly day outside, but warmth instantly fills the male when the larger Professor grows closer. This is accompanied by the lack of concentration, a mild dizziness, when the giant (well, _half_-giant) man notices him.

"Bit early, aren't yeh?" Professor Hagrid asks lightly, almost jokingly. Smiling awkwardly, Enoch gives a small nod. He should have walked slower, arrived later. Now he's just a nuisance, or looks too eager. He's eager, but he doesn't want to look like a teacher's pet, doesn't want to establish that as his image so early in the game. "That's alright. Yeh can help feed Witherwings, if yeh like. If he likes you, too."

A calmness quietens the brunet's thoughts and the smile on Enoch's face grows wider and more sincere, less uncomfortably forced. In that moment, as he's reassured that maybe he's not as bad as he thinks, he decides he likes this professor a lot.   
  
  


**. . .**  
  
  
  


Enoch's first day ends slowly, bringing with it a wave of tiredness he feels no amount of sleep will get rid of. As the other boy's in the dorm with him chatter away while they prepare for sleep, the brunet struggles to even follow the conversations, let alone participate. The emotions around him are affecting him more strongly as well, tiredness making him weaker and more susceptible.

"Hey Desrosiers," It's fortunate Enoch registers his last name, almost missing it amongst the noise he's ignoring. He pauses, mid-folding of his robes, and looks toward the boy who owns the bed beside him. Enoch barely knows him but can sense―_hopes_ he can sense―the expensive cologne that radiates from him. But this is potential pride or sensibility is mingled with the popping candy and grin constantly twitching at his thin lips. Sure, his hair is brushed back, but it's also bursting against its combing, curls threatening to break free. _Oh no_, Enoch is staring; his neighbour probably thinks he's an idiot and he hasn't even said anything. "You know you don't have to fold your clothes by hand, right?"

Enoch frowns, gaze dropping back to his robes, "Of course I do... They get wrinkles if I just dump them." His bed neighbour rolls his eyes and gestures with his wand, causing the robes to fly from the empath's hands. Floating in their air, they fold neatly into a pile the transfer could only dream of folding and land atop his other clothes. While they're the best folded clothes Enoch has ever seen, he feels uncomfortable with the waste of magic.

"_By hand_, I said. Just magic them; it's what it's for."

"But it's such a waste..." Enoch mutters, gazing sadly at the pile. "Why waste magic on that?"

"Magic isn't limited, doofus. I'm not going to just run out." Brow furrowed in concern, the empath doesn't seem convinced. And he isn't: in the back of his mind, he can't shake the concern that, _maybe_, such careless use of magic could cause it to run out.

So, he goes to fold his pants by hand as well, only for his neighbour to sigh, smile, and magically fold these as well.

"Magic exists for a reason, Desrosiers." The boy says, magicking his own clothes neatly into their case. And Enoch agrees.

He just doesn't think _this_ is the reason.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes Enoch only a few minutes to realise he's left Ferret at the dorm, curled up underneath the sheets where he slept last night. He stops, dead in the middle of the corridor, as this slowly dawns on him; his hand still hangs up near at his shoulders, grasping the empty space where white fur should fill. Immediately, lacking the safety blanket, a wave of panic rushes over the brunet. He's filled with conflict, too: does he go back to get his pet, or continue onwards to class? If he goes back, there's no way he'll get to class on time. If he goes to class, who knows if he'll survive through the class? Neither seem appealing, _at all_, both sending equal amounts of butterflies through his stomach.

Stuck and unsure of which way to go, the brunet doesn't move. His legs physically will not move, refusing to until he's figured out what he's doing. And he doesn't know what he's going to do. This causes problems as other students around him, carefree and not going through the same problem as him, move to their own classrooms. It's not a big corridor, barely enough room for the bodies of students moving through it, and the empath is pushed against others as they try to make their way past. Each bump brings muted snapshots of emotions: a sharp tang of vinegar, then a warm, painful sensation in his chest (heartbreak? Heartburn?). Followed by an overload of sugar and more sugar and _more sugar_. _How_ are people so happy? They're at _school_.

These emotions, combined with the general buzz that follows Enoch almost everywhere, only make things worse. He can barely block them out without his Ferret but he can't function enough to get back to the dorms. His legs, now past freezing, feel like jelly that's been placed in the summer's sun—useless, and probably dead soon.

The migraine is emerging, thudding against his temple loudly. This is only an added unwanted stressor and Enoch wants to cry. Or scream. But he can't do either because that would cause even more of a scene and, if he's not already attracting attention, he doesn't want to cause more.

There's so much noise, both physical and emotional, that the brunet can't think straight. Any train of thought is soon interrupted by– oh, _God_, someone's angry. Really angry. Oh, his mouth burns really bad, he might– wait, no, it's gone. Now it's just sugar again, the memory of the spicy anger just a mild tingle on his tongue.

It takes mere seconds for Enoch to feel as though he can't cope, can't breathe, can't survive with this crowd around him. Bumping him and jolting him—pushing him around like a ball in a pinball machine—with their muted but intrusive emotions, with all their happiness. (Why does everyone have to be _so_ happy? He feels like he's going to throw up with all this sweetness). He's sinking, unable to keep treading this sea of emotions and stay afloat. _He's going to drown!_

Tears prick his eyes as Enoch tries to fill his lungs with the needed oxygen. It's hard, really hard—all of this is _too_ hard. He just wants to go home. Crawl inside his bed and pretend none of this ever happened. _He can't do this_. He wonders briefly what would happen if he just collapsed, right here in the middle of the corridor; would people notice, or would they just trample over him like they're stampeding past? They'd probably stand and judge, whisper to their friends, wonder what sort of weirdo just _falls _on their way to class. Not the sort they want to hang– Enoch receives a particularly rough bump, getting a blast of salt and spice and nothing nice.

Right when it feels as though Enoch might snap or faint—whichever comes first—a cold hand grips his wrist. For a second, he thinks it's his mother's, but then no herbal tea comes. Only burning lemon candy, cupfuls of brine and vinegar, and petrichor. However, he isn't repulsed or anything; he clings to the extreme emotions, using them to block out the rest like Ferret's quiet does as he's dragged off to who knows where.   
  


Draco knows, the second he even approaches the Desrosiers boy, that this is a bad idea. _Merlin_, to even associate with the boy, outside of class where he has a choice, is a bad idea: someone could start rumours—spread the lies that Draco is some kind of Muggle sympathiser, friends of the half-blood. It could get back to his father, _or worse individuals_, and he'd be punished again, one way or another. But, somewhere in the blond's decaying heart is an inkling of compassion, a piece of good that somehow escaped his squashing, that won't let him keep walking. He's going to be late for class, but he still drags the brunet off to a nearer, emptier room. _He never really liked Charms anyway_.

The Slytherin is surprised someone else—a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor, even a Ravenclaw—hadn't already asked the younger boy if he was alright, or just outright helped him. It's not as though he's being subtle; the Hufflepuff looks near fainting as he allows himself to drift through the crowd, pushed around like some driftwood against the sea's waves. He doesn't even look like he's breathing properly—up closer, Draco _knows_ he's struggling, can hear the ragged gasps for air like he really is being crashed against waves and dunked underneath.

But that's the problem with people, the blond thinks as he pulls the boy into an empty classroom, no one ever seems to notice. Not if it doesn't involve them. They just keep walking, too absorbed in their own happiness and self-importance to notice that someone needs help, might just even need a quick _'Hey, are you alright?'_. Even _Perfect Potter_, with all his do-gooding and holier-than-thou attitude, would have walked straight past. He probably did, too busy plotting and planning with his entourage of the mudblood and might-as-well-be-mudblood.

Once they're inside the classroom, Draco makes sure the boy is alright to stand by himself, then lets go of his wrist. He then leans against another desk, creating a barrier between them as he crosses his arms over his chest. He waits, an impatience laced into his posture and gaze. Class will have started by now, but instead the blond is stuck standing around as the younger tries to get his breath back. Of all the reasons to be skipping class, the Slytherin can't believe _this_ is why. 

As he waits, his mind drifts, returning back to the summer he just escaped. Never has he been so glad to return to school, to the sycophantic Slytherins and (rightfully) distrustful Gryffindors. But, after a summer of being punished for his father's failings, the halls of Hogwarts feel like safety... _almost_. His hand absentmindedly grips his arm, bandages wrapped around a burdensome secret. He sighs, softly, forgetting is company.

Only to be reminded of it as the younger almost retches, gripping a table to balance him. The blond retreats slightly, ensuring all his robes are pulled in, before he speaks, "If you're going to be sick, try not to get it on my clothes, transfer."

"I'm not going to throw up. It's passed." Desrosiers groans, fingers rubbing his temple again. He did that during their first meeting too, the Slytherin remembers.

"Madam Pomfrey has potions for migraines," Malfoy keeps on talking, the sudden, sharp burst of vinegar thankfully easing away as he does so, "but I assume yours isn't a simple migraine problem." Enoch watches the blond warily, wondering how much he knows. He's definitely clued onto something—but what, exactly?

"Thank you, for helping me."

Malfoy shrugs, carelessly, "Don't get the wrong idea—I only did it because I was in your debt. And I want to know what you are." Enoch would be inclined to believe him: the older male looks as cold as last time, closed off and uncaring as he gazes vacantly around the small classroom, arms folded over his chest. Icy, grey eyes then pierce into the younger, expectant.

"What do you mean, _what_ I am?"

"Don't play dumb, Desrosiers; I know you're a Hufflepuff but you can't be that stupid. In Alchemy, when you interrupted my reading, you... took my emotions from me, made me feel light." The blond has to choose his words carefully, not wanting to let on how much this affected him. He has thought about that moment a lot since. For just a brief moment, when the brunet's fingers brushed against him, he'd felt a little better. Like the weight of the world wasn't resting on his shoulders. "So, either you've learnt a non-verbal spell that isn't taught at school, or you're not normal."

Enoch's shoulders slump forward in defeat as caught. It brings a triumphant smirk to the blond's lips.

"It's not a spell. I– I don't know how I took your emotions away..."

"_But_," pushes Malfoy, bitter lemon increasing as he seems almost irritated that the boy can't even figure out how to explain it. He hasn't had to even try since he was small, and then he simply stated, 'Papa tastes like candy,' and it went from there.

"But I can–" Wait, should Enoch even be telling him? The pale Slytherin hasn't given him any reason to trust him. But then, he _did_ take his emotions. And Malfoy knows something is up. Might as well be out with it and hope for the best. "I can sense emotions."

"Sense... emotions?" Malfoy asks, almost incredulously, like he doesn't believe him. The brunet doesn't blame him. Still, he nods.

"Emotions affect my senses, so I can smell or taste them usually. Skin contact makes them worse, or stronger." Enoch shifts uncomfortably under the steely gaze of the blond, who seems to be drinking this information—hopefully not storing it away to use against him. "Apparently touching people can also make me take their emotions away."

Something shifts in Malfoy's gaze and the vinegar increases just slightly, "What emotions– What _things_ do you sense from me?"

Enoch shrugs, "Lemon candy, so strong it burns my mouth, and brine. Vinegar comes and goes with its strength. Oh, and... What is it?" The brunet clicks his fingers, struggling to recall the word. "It's– _l'odeur après la pluie_... Oh! _Pétrichor_!"

"Petrichor?" Malfoy repeats, getting a quick nod. "And what do all those represent?"

"Oh, that part's easier." Enoch doesn't realise but, as he describes his little ability to the Slytherin, he finds himself growing more relaxed and comfortable. The blond, while maintaining his cold exterior, doesn't seem to be outright judging him; all questions seem laced with curiosity, if anything. It feels nice, being able to tell someone. He should probably tell Gee, though, if he's okay with Malfoy knowing... "Lemon candy... Well, I think that's bitterness, or unhappiness. Brine is unhappy—vinegar is scared. You're incredibly unhappy, _Furet_. Petrichor, I don't know what that is... I've never smelt that as an emotion before."

"Well, I assumed there would have to be something wrong with a transfer in our sixth year." Malfoy pushes himself up off the desk he's been leaning against. When he speaks again, his voice carries a tone as though he's stating the obvious, "If skin to skin contact affects it so strongly, maybe you should try gloves." Then he keeps walking, like he's going to leave—he is going to leave. Now, having gotten the information he wanted, Malfoy is leaving.

But Enoch reaches out, hand gripping the older's wrist much like he had earlier, only to have Malfoy recoil from his touch instantly. His hand pressed against his chest, the Slytherin looks at the Hufflepuff in disgust, like some filthy peasant has just tried to touch the prince's precious hand, but his emotions betray him as Enoch tastes vinegar.

"I can sense almost all your emotions, Malfoy. Even the ones you've suppressed." The brunet warns, before the blond can escape him. "You're not fooling me; I know there's some honey underneath all that sad. I _know_, somewhere, there's a good person."

Malfoy smirks, "Then your power has failed you." Enoch's brow furrows into a confused frown. "Clearly, you also haven't heard, _anyone _who's _ever_ turned out bad was from Slytherin."


	6. Chapter 6

It's far too early to be speedily attempting to make his bed. But that's what Enoch is doing as he pulls the sheets over his bed. Overestimating the gap between his bed and the wall, there's a quiet thud as his head makes impact with the wall, followed by a small, involuntary groan that leaves his lips. It's also far too early for Enoch to be causing damage to himself. _Far, far too early_, he thinks as he doesn't bother moving—doesn't have the energy to move. For a brief moments, his mind falls asleep, eyes closed and forehead leaning against the wall.

That is, until something is pulled from underneath him and he slips forward. How he manages to avoid more pain is beyond the brunet—_a miracle_—but he lands comfortably on his bed. Looking up, Enoch spots the culprit: the exact person he was racing against to make his bed.

"Did you know some muggles can pull a table cloth out from underneath the tableware, _without magic_, and not disturb anything on it? _Without magic_." Enoch's neighbour, who introduced himself as Elijah not long after their first meeting (and seemed almost as excited about the fact the brunet's name started with 'E' as Gee did), tells the younger with a wide smile across his lips. He shakes his head in disbelief, looking at the blanket he's causing to float idly in the air. "I can barely manage _with magic_."

"They probably practice," mutters the empath as he climbs off his bed in defeat. He's been beat, _again_, by the pureblood Hufflepuff. Since their first interaction, Elijah has caught the brunet doing menial tasks by hand and disapproved very loudly. Every single time he's caught the boy, he's interrupted and finished the job with magic—because Enoch refuses to use his own. He _will not_ use magic on tasks like making his bed, not when he's been able to do for the past seventeen years without.

"You're probably right." It takes a few seconds for Elijah to make the bed, with all the bedding working together—rather than against, which it seems to do for Enoch. Once completed, absolutely perfect, the older wizard looks at it with a smile on his lips. The pleased smile, along with the burst of sugar, tells the transfer that he means well, and it's the only reason he's put up with it so far. He's concerned for the boy, itching as he watches him, worried that he might lose his magic one day and it'll be all because of the fact he used it up on making a bed. It's part of the reason he rushes so much, even if it's way too early.

"We should go down to breakfast before all the good food is taken." Elijah states, not giving the younger a chance to respond. He grabs the Enoch's hand, popping candy crackling away in his mouth, and drags him out of the dormitory. Immediately, guilt fills the brunet because he hasn't waited for Gee and that's their thing, right? She waits for him, usually, because the boy wakes up later than her on most days, but today he hasn't even been given the option to wait for her. Will she be offended when she leaves, only to discover that Enoch has run ahead? Will she be upset with him?

He can only wait and find out, hoping she responds more positively than he expects. Elijah continues to chatter on, about magician muggles and their funny magic. (_"Did you know one of their magic words is 'Abracadabra'? Imagine that... It's essentially the killing curse and they're out there shouting it like it's nothing!"_). And, sometimes, what he says sounds a little wrong to the transfer, but he still sounds incredibly passionate. His arms, as he talks, wave all over the place and almost hit a fellow student as they make their way to some free seats at the Hufflepuff table. Fortunately, they notice the incoming hand and dodge it; they seem to be used to it.

"Pancakes!" Elijah yells once he notices the breakfast laid out for them. Eager, he grabs a seat and reaches out to grab some of the pancakes that have got him so excited. Then, he seems to catch himself, realising just how excited he seems, and coughs awkwardly. He settles back down, a little quieter. The smile still rests on his lips as he pats the free spot beside him, however. "I love pancakes. My nanny used to make _amazing_ pancakes, but my parents decided I didn't need one anymore and she was a waste of money, so I don't get them anymore." The boy shrugs. "These ones aren't so bad though."

Encouraged by Elijah's enthusiasm, Enoch takes one of the pancakes. After the sandy blond has finished drowning his in maple syrup, he passes it to the empath. Putting slightly less, he pours some of the sweet sauce on his own breakfast. With his mouth full, Elijah is quietened slightly; this allows Enoch some more time to think, mostly about how terrible he feels about running off on Gee. It almost makes him afraid to see her later, once she's woken up.

But the pancakes are good. They, once again, aren't as good as his parents', but they'll do.

"You're French, aren't you? Desrosiers is a French family—or do they have some sort of English branch?" Elijah asks, pushing a mouthful of pancake down as he struggles to speak. Enoch shakes his head, explaining that he is from the French branch—as far as he knows, he's also the start of the English branch. "I went to France once with my family. We went to this party with a bunch of old wizarding families—Mother said it would be good to meet them all, make friends with them—but the Desrosiers weren't there."

"Grand-papa and grand-maman aren't big on parties. They own a farm, like to stick to that instead."

"Can you speak French?" The brunet nods, much to the delight of the older male. "What's pancake in french?"

Enoch just shrugs, "Pancake. It's not really a French food. We have _crêpes_ though"

"Oh, that's boring... What about... fork?"

"_La fourchette_."

Elijah repeats, pronunciation off and accent thick. The transfer almost cringes as the pureblood boy continues, "Fourchette; I use a fourchette to eat my pancakes."

"Eli's finally lost the plot, talking nonsense." A familiar voice speaks, announcing the anticipated entrance of Gee. She laughs at the now embarrassed boy, whose ears were growing a light shade of pink. He shovelled more pancake into his mouth. As Enoch looked at the girl, he feels his stomach lurch; the nerves return as he thinks of all the judgement she could have towards him. But she just flashes him a bright smile, all sunshine and oranges, and says, "Sorry I took so long, I slept in. It's a good thing you didn't wait up, or you might've missed out on all the good stuff."

Enoch's relief feels like jelly and exhales slowly, placing his knife and fork down in the worry he might drop them.

"I'm not losing the plot." Elijah mumbles through crumbly pancakes. "I'm just _learning_."

"I know, Elijah; I'm just teasing." Enoch's pancakes take on an additional sweetness, crackling like candy in his mouth as the sandy blond boy smiles widely again. Unable to handle the extra flavours, the empath stops eating and takes a large drink of water. Within a few seconds he's downed the tall glass. Even that tastes like candy and oranges and a heavy sleepiness.

"Are you going to eat that?" Elijah asks, waiting a few moments before gesturing at the brunet's plate. Half a pancake still rests there; with little plans on eating it, Enoch shakes his head. "May I? Please?"

"Sure," says Enoch as he pushes the plate over to his neighbour. The smile grows wider—there's something about Hufflepuffs and smiles that seem to go together. Maybe other houses are just as smiley and he hasn't noticed, but he swears all the Hufflepuffs he's met are constant smiles. Must be tiring, he thinks.

Despite not eating any more, Enoch stays at the table with his two friends. They chatter away in between mouthfuls, with the brunet listening more than speaking, though he's sometimes dragged into it.   
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  


Enoch refuses to wear wizarding clothes on a weekend. _Refuses_. The robes are so long and uncomfortable, and it's a perfect Autumn day for shorts and a shirt. He thinks, as he lies on the grass near the lake, that he saw some students wearing clothes like his but he isn't sure. He's definitely seen some wearing what he assumes are wizard clothes. But he won't—he swears he won't. He'll put up a fight if he has to.

Gee and Philip left earlier, wanting to go spy on another student—but they didn't call it that... They were getting updates, _important updates_, on something they were monitoring. Both wanted to know what a girl was up to. It had sounded suspicious when they described it, so Enoch decided he wouldn't come along. He wanted to go outside anyway, catch some rays before winter came and it was impossible to. Elijah had said he'd come later, after he was done studying—he got told off for saying that, accused of spending too much time studying. His ears had turned pink again.

A dark shadow passes over Enoch and his book, blotting out the warmth of the sun from the top half of his body. The brunet would have ignored it, as there are a few clouds up in the sky right now, but the shadow's shape looks suspiciously like a human. So, unwillingly, he looks up. It's probably a good thing he did too, because there stands none other than Draco Malfoy, interrupting the pleasant day with his sour lemons. And just when Enoch was starting to remember what it was like to have alone time—quiet time—where he can't sense much.

The blond boy is clearly one of the students that prefer to stick to robes, still looking all dressed up despite it being a weekend and having no reason to be. With his clothes all black, he looks like he'd be growing warm, sun being absorbed into his clothes. But, if he is, he doesn't show it. All he shows is mild displeasure, a bitterness matching the lemons—he looks slightly put out.

"Here," the Slytherin eventually says as he drops a flash of white. It's landed on the younger's book before he can properly register what it is, gaze dropping with it. When it stops, it gains more definition and becomes less of a blur—a pair of white gloves. "I have no use for them and I can't be expected to save you every time you have a moment, so take them."

"I can't–"

"They're expensive," interrupts Malfoy. He looks uncomfortable, gaze still cold but expression looking as though he wants to be anywhere but here, "Anyway, for a Desrosiers, you dress so poor—this is practically an act of charity. Just take the gloves and then there'll be no need for us to interact more than necessary."

Enoch doesn't want to take the gloves, but he feels like this moment of kindness (_is it kindness?_) shouldn't be taken for granted. So he smiles lightly, picking the gloves up from the book, and thanks the cold Malfoy heir. An almost pleasant honey lemon coats the empath's tongue, but he's still shrugged off, with a small, "It's nothing. Don't get the wrong idea, Desrosiers."

The pair are interrupted by cries of '_Malfoy!_' as the two cronies that seem to shadow the blond make their way over. The expression on Malfoy's face sharpens, growing cold, as the bitterness of the lemons increases. Before they can reach him, he starts walking towards them to meet in the middle. They're still within earshot when the cronies start asking where he's been, and what he's doing with _that guy—who is that guy, we haven't seen him before_.

"Must you two follow me everywhere?" Malfoy hisses, not even covering his annoyance. "That's the transfer—the Desrosiers boy. And, if you must know everything I do, I was giving him some wardrobe tips—like burning all those muggle clothes and buying some proper clothes with some of the money his family has." The other two boys seem to think this is hilarious, as they laugh loudly as the trio move off. Enoch continues to watch them go, hand still gripping the soft gloves within. Malfoy doesn't look back once.

As Enoch gets comfortable again, still clutching the gloves, he frowns to himself. He's torn between wanting to dislike Malfoy, which seems to be the general feeling towards him, and see the best in him even if that can be quite difficult. This, he concludes after reaching no solution, is a dilemma he will have to write home about. 


	7. Chapter 7

After the act of kindness, Malfoy returns to his cold, distant self. During class, when they're working together, he barely talks to the brunet past what's necessary—and, even then, sometimes he doesn't. His focus is almost always on some book, or notes, that have nothing to do with Alchemy. He doesn't even do that homework, copying his partner's when he thinks Enoch isn't looking. Enoch is, but he doesn't need to be an empath to sense the exhaustion hanging off him, and he lets him go.

The blond's state seems to be deteriorating slowly—his already sharp features seem to be growing gaunt, with the dark shadows darkening. When he speaks, there's less bite too, as though he's just too preoccupied to care that Enoch is the son of the muggle sympathiser, which seems to be only a little better than a '_mudblood_'. But if the empath tries to ask what's wrong, he's brushed off and _then_, the cold remarks come. So he keeps quiet.

He wears the gloves, too. Even if he looks like a weirdo wearing them, when he's out, they stay fixed on his hands. They do help, muting any hand contact, but also provide as a source of fidgeting when the brunet grows restless. He's already discovered the little DM embroidered into the inner lining, as well as the little green snake that decorates the hem. It's weird, wearing the other boy's gloves, but he's nonetheless grateful for the mild relief they bring.

They also, conveniently enough, don't seem to stain. Which is an absolute blessing.

Enoch groans as the ink from his quill once again spills, leaving a large ink blot over his writing. It's not the first blot either—there are numerous scattered across this page alone. The brunet likes to think he's a neat writer, but writing by quill makes it impossible to be anything but messy. His notes, these days, are near illegible and often incomplete; a short essay takes longer than necessary as he constantly has to restart, or write slowly. He's already sent an urgent letter home, asking for normal pens as soon as possible (as well as why he was kept in the dark about how his parents met, and how known his last name seemed to be). The norm be damned, he _cannot_ cope with these unwieldy feathers.

A wand taps his page and the ink blots seem to evaporate, leaving only the writing behind. Looking up, slightly confused, Enoch discovers the owner of the wand is none other than his Alchemy partner—who isn't even looking up from his thick book. He does, briefly, glance up when he notices the brunet's confused expression. He explains simply, "Your notes are my notes and I have enough difficulty reading them as it is," and returns to his reading.

And that's their last interaction for the rest of the day.   
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  


It's been almost two weeks since he's arrived at the school. Enoch can hardly believe it as he attends his second weekend breakfast, sitting with Elijah on his left and Gee on his right. Philip, once again, sits across from them at the Hufflepuff table. He and Elijah seem to be having some sort of silent eating competition—but the younger can't be certain.

The noise of the tables is interrupted by the hooting of incoming owls, which seems to only increase the volume of the students. Excited chatter fills the air as they receive letters and parcels from their parents. When the owls do swoop nearer, however, Ferret hisses angrily; it's almost as though he, rudely, doesn't want the brunet to receive his. Enoch watches the air, hope spiking each time one owl looks like it's flying towards him, only to be disappointed to have the delivery go to someone else. It's only when he's beginning to believe he won't receive anything that a tawny owl drops a parcel in front of him. He rips into it with excitement.

A packet of pens—actual, normal pens—tumble out from the top. Underneath were an assortment of muggle-related items the brunet had been missing from home, such as a comic book he'd read to death, a t-shirt he'd nearly worn to death, a tin of lemon sherbets (Malfoy had him craving them) and, though he hadn't asked for it, herbal tea. Along with this was his letter. This, he saved for last, wanting to save the closest he has to contact with his parents. He opens the envelope carefully, not wanting to wreck it. Inside, the comforting slopes of his mother's writing greets him with, '_Mon cher Enoch_,'.  
  


_Both your father and I are pleased to hear you're settling in and enjoying yourself. Gee sounds like a nice girl and we think you should invite her and her family over during the Christmas break if they'd like._

Enoch glances up from his letter, looking at the friends he's created since writing the letter. There's more than just the one now, and it would be insensitive to invite Gee in front of them. Focus returns back to his letter.

_The package should have everything you asked for, as well as the herbal tea. The tea was your father's idea, because he remembered you saying it calmed you. Also, tell us if we missed something. Just remember, you have to take home everything you–_

"Would you guys like to come over during the holidays?" Enoch asks, looking between the trio. He figures the invitation extends to any nice friends he makes, he'd just have to tell his parents about it first.

"Sure! Holidays at home are so _boring_." Gee answers first, smile as wide as ever. "I'd love to meet your parents too."

"Same, don't think many here have met the Desrosiers."

"I, uh, I can't come." Elijah speaks up, gaze glued to his plate of food. Glancing up at Enoch, he brings a smile to his lips, "Mother has gotten me a tutor for the break; she wants me to get some extra study done—says it's the perfect time to."

"No way," Gee exclaims, turning to the curly haired boy, "That's so unfair. It's _Christmas_!"

"Exactly, other students will be relaxing then. Perfect time to get ahead of the game."

"Eli, even most _Ravenclaws_ aren't worrying about all that yet."

"But that's the point, isn't it?" The curly haired boy mutters as he pushes some good around his plate. It seems as though he has forfeited to Philip, no longer eating. "To get ahead of them."

"Surely there are other ways to get ahead that don't involve spoiling Christmas."

"Gee, _please_, my Christmas isn't spoilt. I want to get ahead, and I'm fine with doing it this way. I'll visit another holiday." The older girl gets the message and backs off with a nod of resignation. She returns to her juice, taking a small sip as she and Philip share a glance. Elijah stays silent, ears red again, and takes a small nibble of his food. Possibly sensing another sad boy, Ferret crawls over to the boy's hand, right beside his plate. But then, with that he grabs some of the crumbs, the pet may have just been after the food...

Once the conversation is over, Enoch makes a mental note to tell his parents of the two affirmative responses, and returns to his letter.

_As for why we didn't tell you about how we met. You father and I never thought to tell you because it was never important to either of us. It has never defined our relationship for us – it defined our relationship for others. I also wanted you to enter as a blank slate, not as 'the son of Odeda Desrosiers'; that sort of fame can go to a child's head._

_And on the topic of that, no, I have never met Draco Malfoy. His father, I have, and I believe he is a terrible man, but that doesn't define his son. For all I know, he could be lovely. If you want, give him a chance and at least then you can say you tried._

_Also, thanks for telling your father that all the girls are asking about him and think he's handsome. It's gone to his head._

Following his mother's letter was Alistair's own slightly smaller one.

_Do people really think I'm handsome? They haven't even seen me! If they keep asking, tell them, yes, I really am that cool._

_The house is really quiet without you here, kiddo. We made bread on Friday but no one here had fingers made to knead like you. I had to do it for you, it wasn't as good. When you come home, we'll (as in, your mother) will make all your favourite food before you have to go back to vegetable pasties._

_Backstreet Boys are touring in November. Mum refuses to go, but we can still go together. See if any of your friends want to come._

_Bons baisers, your awesome Papa_

_P.S. Be careful when you take the clothes out of the parcel. They're filled with lollies I smuggled you._

Glancing back at the parcel, the brunet pushes down on one of the articles of clothing. Sure enough, they crinkle like wrappers and feel like lollies. A small smile stretches across his lips in amusement; the only reason it doesn't become a laugh is because he's in the company of others and he doesn't want to draw attention to himself.

But, slowly, the warm feeling turns cold as he grows aware of the distance between his family and himself. He's never been this long without them—in fact, the longest time was one weekend, when his parents had no choice but to leave him with the neighbours. One weekend, he could handle. This, he's not so sure.


	8. Chapter 8

Enoch doesn't want to get out of bed. He knows he should, but he _really _wants to stay. In bed, it's warm and comfortable and, if he buries himself under his doona, he can pretend he's back at home. That's what he really wants, to be back at home. Homesickness has him bedridden, making him wonder if he should see the school nurse or take something for it. Is there even a cure for homesickness? _God_, he wishes there was.

Ferret nudges at his face, crawling underneath the blanket to try and wake the boy. These days he stays on top of the covers, apparently disliking the heat underneath or something. But now, he curls up next to the brunet with his whiskers tickle his nose. He's probably hungry; Enoch should feed him. He just doesn't want to move.

The desire to remain stationary seems stupid. He can't explain it and it's not like it's helping his homesickness—it's just giving him more time to stew. If he was more active, hanging out with friends, he could probably forget about it a little better. But the idea of leaving his bed is irrationally daunting.

"E, there's pancakes for breakfast." A voice interrupts his stewing. Under the covers, he can't see who it is, but he can tell by their voice and emotions: oranges and sunshine flood his senses as the feminine voice speaks. These pleasant emotions battle his own negative ones, almost managing to overpower them. "Philip saved you some."

"M'not hungry," grumbles the boy. This is childish, he thinks; but childish is how he feels right now. Still, he pokes his head out through the blanket to frown at the older girl. Gee stands there, concern shining through her gaze, her hands on her hips. "This is the boy's dorm. No girls."

"I have special consideration; the prefect is my cousin."

"Really?" The dark haired girl grins and shakes her head.

"I mean, he could be—I've never really looked into my family tree much. But he's a pure blood. Not a _pure_ pure blood, just a pure blood; he likes to point out that both his parents are half bloods. So we probably aren't related." Gee gives a careless shrug. "Anyway, you've got to get up. I know it's Sunday, but it's a sunny Sunday and we have to make the most of it before the sun decides to go away again. C'mon."

Enoch sighs heavily, "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Not in the slightest. I'll drag you out if I have to—or get Philip, and he's _really_ clumsy."

The brunet sighs again, pulling the doona off himself. It's probably better he doesn't have a choice. He'd stay in bed all day if he did.   
  
  
  
  


Ferret stalks his prey: a small butterfly minding its own business as it flutters around the grass. The white pet crawls slowly towards it, approaching with careful stealth. Then, once he's close enough, he pounces. The butterfly is snapped up in his jaws. Enoch watches, but he isn't paying much attention. Gee is as well, but she's paying attention and cringes when the ferret chomps away at his snack.

"What's your ferret's name? You never said." The girl asks, reaching out to pat the pet. Ferret pauses his hunt to focus on this, moving so she can scratch a better spot.

"Ferret."

"That's a terrible name." Ferret gives the empath a pointed look. "You should give him a proper name, like... Snowy."

Ferret grumbles and Enoch says, "He doesn't like those sort of names. Too cheesy. He wants a proper name. Except for Leo. He didn't like Leo."

"Should call him AJ."

Enoch responds automatically, "No, I'd call him Nick then."

Then there's a pause, as both comprehend what the other has said. They turn to each other, smiles wide on their lips.

"You like Backstreet Boys?" Enoch asks, excitement rushing through him. His bad mood is forgotten at the prospect of finding a friend with similar music tastes. This has never happened before; the only person he knows to appreciate the same music is his dad. (This is the case for many things, however).

"_Of course_, I like Backstreet Boys. Who doesn't?"

"Maman," mutters the brunet. But he's soon grinning again, "Papa's buying tickets to their concert. Do you wanna come?"

"Sure! But we'll have to bring Elijah too; he wanted to listen to some muggle music so I leant him my CD. He came back obsessed." Then Gee adds, as an aside, "He's a Howie guy."

"I'll write to Papa telling him to buy two extra tickets." The worst day has suddenly become the best day; Enoch can hardly believe his luck.

"First, let's figure out this ferret's name: AJ or Nick?"

"Let him decide." Enoch points at the ferret who's now rolling in the grass. "Whoever he walks to decides his name." Gee nods in agreement and shuffles to the side. Once there's enough distance between them and the Ferret, both equal, they start yelling both the names at him. The peace of the afternoon is disturbed by desperate screams of "_Come to me, Nick, come to me!_" and "_No, AJ! You know that's your name. C'mon, AJ, don't fail me now!_". And, for a brief moment, Ferret seems to consider; he looks between the pair, what could be considered a ferret-like frown on his furry, little brow. Then, he starts crawling towards Enoch.

This naturally causes their screams to grow louder, more desperate, as the boy urges the ferret on and the girl tries to call him back. Ferret seems taken by Nick, because he doesn't even look back to Gee. There's a moment, where the winner seems clear; Ferret is so close to Enoch that it's unconsciously agreed that his name is going to be Nick. But then, once he's reached the brunet, he keeps walking.

And stops at the feet of a curly-haired Howie fan who is watching this scene in confusion.

"_Howie_?" The pair exclaims, nearly in sync—but not quite, so instead it comes across as a chaotic jumble. Complete betrayal is evident on both individual's faces. Meanwhile, Elijah's expression lights up at the mention of his favourite member.

"Howie! Why are we talking about Howie?"

"We were trying to figure out a name for the ferret." Gee explains as the third Hufflepuff sits down. "He chose Howie."

"The ferret's got taste," claims the boy as he gives the newly named pet a scratch behind the ear. There's a pleased smile on his lips, as though he's done this on purpose. But he hasn't; how could he? He didn't even know what was happening until he'd sat down.

However, Enoch can't deny that the name Howie is already growing on him. It seems to now suit the ferret. And, if the pet likes the name, then why should Enoch not give it to him?

Nick still would have been better though...  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  


Enoch hates Alchemy practicals. He didn't know he did until he was forced to go through one, with Malfoy as his partner—though partner seems an inaccurate term, as the blond was of no help at all. He spent the entire thing doing... whatever it is he spends his class time doing, which is also what he happens to be doing now. This leaves the brunet to struggle by himself, working uncertainly as he prays the combination of liquids will create the desired substance. But this time, after multiple warnings from Moro that an incorrect combination could _"cause any number of accidents, from a loss of limbs to growing limbs, both very hard and painful to reverse_", Enoch doesn't want to make a mistake.

But he also doesn't want to ask for help. Glancing at the tired Slytherin, who sighs softly to himself as he turns another page, the empath can feel his heart rate increase. His throat feels as though it's closing, as though it refuse to make the sounds required for him to ask. _No_, it says, _we won't make a fool of ourselves by asking for help_. Enoch would like to believe that it's because of the coldness he receives from the other boy, but he can't even bring himself to ask the teacher—who is quite happy to help the other students who ask.

Enoch is just a coward.

He doesn't want to be a coward. The thought hurts more than... than losing a limb and the potential reversal process. So he swallows, trying to wet his dry throat (it barely works), and turns to Malfoy. Clearing his throat quietly, he tries to speak, "I–". It comes out a squeak. _God_, he's hopeless.

"Malfoy," Enoch tries again. His voice sounds more forced and awkward than he'd like, but he goes on anyway, "Could I please get some help?"

"With what?" The blond doesn't seem to care. Maybe Enoch's just hopeful but there looks like there's less judgement in his eye than when he's commenting on his last name and family. It reassures him, just a little.

"Making this?" The empath points at his mortar, which has crushed clay spread across its dark surface. Malfoy stares at it for a few seconds, vacant grey eyes frowning at the contents as he thinks silently.

"Four vials, I think." He finally responds, more of a sigh than anything.

"Thank you," mutters Enoch quickly, not wanting to prolong the bother he could be inflicting on the other boy. He adds the four vials in silence, with Malfoy watching to see if he was correct. There's a slight change in colouration as he stirs the liquid in, turning the desired lighter shade.

"If you need help, just ask." Malfoy speaks up again as Enoch looks for the next ingredient. The brunet glances up at him, surprised at this statement. "There's little point not. Neither of us will get anywhere."

"Thank you." The brunet repeats. Malfoy responds with a careless shrug; he really doesn't seem to care, like he doesn't realise how much these few words mean to the other. He probably doesn't, Enoch's reaction does seem weird and over the top. But still, he can't help but smile a little at this. It's the complete opposite of what he'd expected, what he'd feared would happen. He can't even sense any judgement radiating from the boy, just the usual lemon, brine and petrichor. Speaking of which, that petrichor is getting stronger by the day and Enoch still doesn't have an answer for it.

There's a few moments of silence, as Enoch focuses on adding the necessary amount of air to the mixture. It's a silly-feeling procedure: to add the element of 'life', they are required to blow softly into the wet clay concoction. The sight of the empath awkwardly trying to breathe life into his mortar is one that _almost_ brings an amused smirk to the onlooking blond's lips. But Draco smothers it, glancing back to his books; going back to reading is unappealing now, but he _has_ to. If he's not reading, he feels unproductive, and that's when the stress comes hardest.

"Is calling people by their last names a wizard thing?" Enoch asks, glancing up from his task. It's a thought that just popped into his head, but also one he's wondered about. Malfoy, being someone who the brunet has only heard referred to as his last name, seems one of the best people to ask. "Do people have a thing against first names?"

Malfoy is, once again, silent. But this time, he doesn't even look like he's thinking; he almost looks... confused.

"It's just, something people do," mutters the Slytherin. He stills looks confused, as though he's never actually thought about it before. (He hasn't). "It's the way things are."

"I don't like it," Enoch puts bluntly, but there's a small smile on his lips that suggests he means no offence. "It's kinda restricting, don't you think? People get defined by their last name—I mean, people automatically assume I'm my mother's son–"

"The first and only friends you have made here are a mudblood and two muggle-sympathisers—you _are_ your mother's son."

"_Well_, either way, I don't like it." The brunet huffs, stirring the concoction some more. He goes to grab the final vial—a small one, filled with dark red pig's blood—and carefully pours that in. This is also stirred through. "I think we should call people by their first names... _Draco_." Enoch is met with a soft frown.

"Transfer, things are the way they are for a reason. Stop trying to change a system that works."

"Call me Enoch or I'll call you _Furet_." Draco doesn't need to speak French to understand what he's saying in this moment. The word brings back memories he'd rather forget and a shudder runs through him.

_Transfer: _1_; Draco:_ 0.

"Fine... _Enoch_, I'll call you by your first name." It doesn't feel right. It feels very, very wrong on the Slytherin's tongue but he has few options. He returns to his book, wanting to ignore the smug grin on that half blood's lips, but his attention is drawn from it once again as noises start emanating from the mortar. Both peer into it, where the transmutation has occurred: a small, clay pig snuffles around inside the mortar. It's crudely created, but the basic shape is there. Moro comes over to check their work, praising both of them despite the fact their pig crumbles within the first few seconds of examination. Dry clay remains, the only vague sign that something else might have been there.

"That went pretty well," Enoch says as he's cleaning up. Malfoy is reading again; the brunet tries to get a glance at what exactly he's reading but all he manages to catch is '_Hogwarts_' before the book is turned from his view.

"You didn't stir it long enough. It would have lasted longer had you stirred it properly."


	9. Chapter 9

Draco isn't in Alchemy. Nor is he in Potions, which the brunet had discovered they shared quite early into the term, as the Slytherin enjoyed poking fun at Harry Potter and his friends whenever he got the chance. He wasn't in Transfiguration either. In fact, wherever Enoch looks, Draco isn't there. It's like he disappeared.

He isn't in any classes the following day either. Enoch can't spot him at the dining hall and, during dinner, Philip reports that even the other Slytherins and the closest Draco has to friends don't know where he is. Amongst the student body, those that care enough to notice at least, he's reported missing—though this doesn't seem to cause much worry. No one seems to care. Except Enoch, Pansy Parkinson, and the blond's cronies; Enoch doesn't know how he feels about being put in the same group as them.   
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  


It's at breakfast, half way through the week, when Enoch gets an update. He's spent half a week worrying, wondering—mind going wild—and struggling with his Alchemy practicals. He's heard absolutely nothing, until now... hopefully.

"I still haven't heard about _where_ Malfoy is, but I did hear somethin'," Philip says as he pauses to drink some water, taking large gulps that are audible from the other side of the table. His thirst is understandable after eating three pieces of barely buttered toast. They looked dry, so they presumably made his mouth dry too.

At the mention of Malfoy, Enoch can't help but perk up. He tries not to seem too interested, not wanting to give off the wrong impression, but he starts paying more attention to the boy than his breakfast all the same. Even Elijah's attention is caught, his spoonful of porridge left hanging dangerously in the air. Their reasons for interest might be different, but they're both fixated on their information source, waiting in suspense.

Once he's finished his drink, the Gryffindor leans across the table conspiratorially, announcing lowly, "They're sayin' he's a Death Eater now. That's what's been spread around Gryffindor."

"No way!" Gee exclaims, leaning closer to the table to listen to Philip better. "You're joking, right?"

"Nah, heard it from Potter himself." The Gryffindor grins rather proudly. "Well, I didn't, but the girl who told me—she did."

"I don't believe it." Elijah mutters. Some porridge slides off his spoon.

"It's not that hard to believe, is it? It _is_ Draco Malfoy, _and_ his father was caught last year." Enoch's gaze travels between the trio as they discuss this recent gossip. The brunet feels lost and very confused—all he knows is that a Death Eater isn't a good thing. He wants to ask what they are exactly but if he does, they'll probably judge him—might think he's an idiot. This seems to be some sort of common knowledge he's missing.

"What would You-Know-Who want with a sixteen year old boy?" Ah, so it has something to do with the Man Who Has No Name... or at least people seem to act like he doesn't. With this little piece of information, the brunet is able to fill in some of the gaps—pretend like he understands.

In a terrible show of dramatics, Philip pauses before he answers, leaning further across the table with his robes nearly falling into his breakfast. He looks the curly haired Hufflepuff dead in the eye and says, very gravely, "A way in." These three words hang dangerously in the air.

It takes one moment. One pause, as everyone thinks on these words and their implications. Another moment, and Elijah is clearly consumed by some kind of fear as his imagination goes wild with those three words. His spoon drops, landing in his bowl with a plop. The boy seems to be struggling between breathing too much and not enough. Vinegar rolls off him in waves of sharp bitterness; this fills Enoch's mouth, as though the brunet just sculled a bottle of it. He tries not to gag.

"Philip, not funny." Gee scolds as she wraps an arm around Elijah. The Gryffindor doesn't seem to realise the power he has, staring blankly at the pair as though he hasn't noticed what he's caused. In the older girl's arms, the Hufflepuff is shaking.

"M-M-Mother said H-Hogwarts was p– pra– protected. S-Said I c-couldn't let a– couldn't let _Him_ stop me from g-getting an education." Elijah says, with vinegar still cascading from him. "I-I didn't want to—Y-Y-You-Kn-Kn– _He_ terrifies me– after Diggory– I don't want to– I had to come back." He looks up at Gee with watery eyes. "Is– Is he..?"

With the boy reaching past terrified, Enoch removes his glove. He reaches over, grabbing the boy by the hand. He doesn't know what he's doing, nor how to actually do it, but the boy's fixed his bed enough times for him to try. The first touch brings an intensified amount of vinegar and the brunet cannot hold back a retch this time. Enoch is so afraid—so, so afraid of a man he doesn't even fully understand. His grip tightens as his whole body tenses, waves of vinegar and brine drowning out any sunshine the boy usually contains. It smells like rain, as though fat clouds of rain are filling with pressure and about to burst, drenching the group.

But they don't. Elijah calms, slightly, and the vinegar reduces. At the same time, Enoch relaxes. But not because of the lessening fear. He's relaxing because his whole body, unwantedly, is protesting against an attempt to absorb the panic attack. The brunet isn't even fully conscious when his head hits the table, barely aware of the shouts of alarm from his friends.  
  
  
  
  


When Enoch wakes, the first thing he is aware of is petrichor. He doesn't even have to open his eyes to know that somewhere, within whatever room he is in, Draco is near. Very near too, as the smell almost burns his nose with his strength. His whole body, after absorbing Elijah's emotions, feels sensitive to the emotions. He groans, wanting all of them to go away—he doesn't want to deal with them. Especially not the vinegar.

"If you're sore, call Madam Pomfrey. Your groans are disturbing my sleep." The familiar voice of the blond speaks. This compels Enoch to open his eyes, slowly; they obey, _just_, and he's able to crack them open. Without moving his head too much, he can see Draco in the bed across from him. A bandage peeks out at the top of his shirt, with another smaller one stuck against his cheek.

"Where've you been?" Enoch croaks, voice scratchy. He'd like a glass of water. "No one knew where you were."

"Where I was is none of your business." The blond responds, not even bothering to open his eyes.

"I was worried–"

"You shouldn't be." With a huff, Enoch gives up. He's too tired to try pushing it, even if he wants to.

"Why are you here now then?" He asks instead.

There's a pause before the boy replies, "I fell." It doesn't sound all that believable, but Enoch doesn't push it. The blond boy opens his eyes now, turning his head slowly to face the other. His eyes, as usual, are cold. But it's not a biting cold, just a neutral cold. "Why are you here?" Again, it doesn't sound genuine—it sounds almost mocking. As though he's not really interested, he's just repeating the annoying pestering back.

"I fainted." Enoch tells him, regardless of how interested he is.

"Were you wearing the gloves?"

"I took them off."

"Then you're an idiot."

"I was trying to help someone."

"Then you're even more of an idiot than I thought." With a soft sigh, Draco's eyes close again. Enoch continues to watch him, regardless of how it might look, because the boy looks softer like that—it's almost hard to believe he's _Draco Malfoy _when he looks so vulnerable sleeping, like he's more fragile than he lets on. He's pale like china wear, probably breaks like it too.

Slowly, Enoch looks away to the tall ceiling. He too tries closing his eyes, but the waves of emotion still rolling off Draco make it impossible to sleep. The Slytherin radiates brine and vinegar, which the brunet is already sensitive to. Unintentionally, he groans again.

"I said–"

"I can't help it!" Enoch yells back, tired and sore and really not wanting to be told off for things he can't help. "It's not my fault _your_ emotions hurt. If you want me to stop, _stop feeling_."

Silence follows. The empath expects a response, but gets none. What he gets instead is silence. But not just a lack of sound, but a lack of emotion. It takes the brunet a moment, but soon he realises there's next to nothing. The smell of petrichor is still there, clear as day, but the rest have all been muted—as though he's experiencing them through a barrier. He opens his eyes, wondering where Draco is.

The blond still lies in his bed, completely still. He stares at the ceiling with blank eyes, with a blank face—he is a blank.

"What are you doing?" Enoch asks, voice a nervous whisper.

"Not feeling," whispers Draco back. There's now a strain in his voice; he sounds like he's trying to concentrate on something else. "I used to do it when I... I used to do it. Now go to sleep—_I'm tired_."

"Thank you."

"Sleep, Desrosiers, so I can too." Enoch feels a smile tug at his lips. He's touched by this effort, even if it is selfishly motivated. So touched, in fact, that he doesn't bother to pick the blond up on the use of his last name. Closing his eyes again, he settles back down in the sick bay bed and tries to fall asleep while the emotions are muted.


	10. Chapter 10

"People are saying you're a Death Eater." Enoch breaks the silence of the room with a thought hanging heavily in his mind. Though he instantly regrets it, feeling like some sort of gossip; he feels guilty, as though he's accusing his sick bay companion of being something he knows isn't good. So he tries to save himself, following it with, "What's a Death Eater?"

"The Dark Lord's followers." Enoch glances over at the blond Slytherin, who's now sitting upright in his own bed. Neither have been cleared by Madam Pomfrey, who doesn't seem certain either have recovered fully when she comes around, while other students have come and gone as they pleased. Whenever she checks up on Draco, they talk quietly for a few moments, with cautious glances back at the other boy; Enoch can never hear what is said during this time, purposefully trying to focus elsewhere to avoid eavesdropping.

"Are you?" The brunet presses after a few seconds silence, curiosity getting the better of him. A blank expression remains on the older boy's face as he looks towards Enoch, a soft frown furrowing his brow. He still looks tired, but also more rested than usual; the dark shadows under his eyes are a little less sunken, the hollowness of his eyes only seem a little less hollow. The bandage on his cheek has been removed, revealing a small scratch travelling up his pointed cheekbone.

"What would the Dark Lord want with a sixteen year old? What could _I_ possibly give the Dark Lord?" There's a bitterness in the boy's tone, in the sharpness of the lemons radiating from him, that stops Enoch from pressing further. He holds back, not wanting to upset him further. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Desrosiers; some people just enjoy spreading rumours."

"_Enoch_," corrects the younger boy, receiving an even stronger frown from Draco. "We had a deal—you're supposed to call me Enoch." Draco responds with a small sigh, his gaze travelling away towards the door. Silence settles over the room again, with neither making any attempt to break it. Though Enoch wants to. He really can't stand the stifling silence that hangs over them; it makes him fidget restlessly, wrack his brain for some sort of topic he could bring up, something he could say. Everything seems too prying, too irrelevant, too stupid. And he doesn't want to seem stupid.

He doesn't want Draco to think he's stupid.   
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  


Enoch takes it back: Draco isn't peaceful when he sleeps.

When Draco sleeps—actually sleeps—he dreams, though the younger male is hesitant to call them that. The boy murmurs, mixtures of fear or anger, sometimes sadness, all evident in his tone; the boy also writhes and shuffles, sleepily pushing his dream tormentors away. His brow furrows into a tight frown—the kind of frown that causes tension headaches and brings a sweet kind of relief when released—and his lips are even more turned down than usual. He looks unhappy, incredibly unhappy.

Enoch can sense it too. The citrus-brine-vinegar is even stronger than normal, washing over his tongue. The empath can feel the emotions in the pit of his stomach, rolling around like a turbulent sea.

And so he does what the other boy claims is stupid—he tries to help. Creeping quietly over to the other bed, doing his best not to disturb the older (because he knows he'll be stopped if he tries to do this while awake), Enoch goes to relieve some of these emotions. Once he's beside him—Draco still restless—he reaches out and lightly touches a cold hand. In hindsight, maybe not the best move; maybe he should have learned from last time.

He's never taken the emotions of a sleeping person before, never really properly experienced an emotional sleeper, so he doesn't expect the unfiltered emotions that seep through the contact. Last time, they had been bad—but a sleeping person, completely vulnerable to their unconscious emotions, is so much stronger. The vinegar is intensified, combined with senses the empath had never even experienced before. A stench he can't quite label, almost like old food in the fridge. Wet dog. There's an emptiness that surges throughout his body—like a hunger, but one that can't be satiated with food, forever unsatisfied. It's all so dark and horrible.

And he feels—not just his usual flavours and smells, but actually _feels_. His arm burns, some kind of branding spreading across it, and he can feel himself be cursed to the fate it brings; a burning sensation in the back of his throat; his whole body covers in goosebumps, a cold wet sensation travelling across the surface of his skin. Curling up, both in pain and in search of warmth, Enoch breaks the contact and falls to the ground. He vomits too, apparently that burning wasn't Draco—or maybe it was, and his body reacted all the same.

But Draco seems to calm in his sleep. Enoch might be suffering, but he'd achieved his goal. That makes him feel a little better when Madam Pomfrey is scolding him for being out of bed, forcing him to remain in the infirmary a little longer.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


Draco wants to get out of the sick bay. He knows he isn't sick, that he's recovered enough to go back to classes; he's survived with a broken arm in a sling, after feeling like he was going to _die_, surely he can handle a few scratches. But he also knows it isn't scratches keeping him here: it's what caused the scratches. They want to keep him, for observation—_it's been a while since we had a student like this, might as well learn what we can_, he assumes they've thought. Monitor him, test him, get what they can from him.

He doesn't know why Enoch is still here; the kid only fainted, he could have left ages ago. But then, he had been out for a while—a whole day—and he is another special case. That's probably why they're keeping him.

Watching the brunet, who stares at the ceiling with such an intensity it suggests he's trying to distract himself—or stop himself from doing something—Draco wonders how different they really are. Clearly, their backgrounds are completely different, and some of their views are polar opposites, but at a basic level... they've both got secrets; Enoch sometimes acts like he's drowning, Draco often feels like he is.

But then enters a key difference between the two: Enoch has support and friends. His small group that he's managed to make in his few weeks of attendance, tighter than anything Draco has had in his six years, enters the room. They chatter loudly, clearly forgetting where they are, and then rush excitedly to the bed once they've located their friend. Draco looks elsewhere, on the empty bed across from him, but his focus unwillingly remains on the group.

"We thought you would've been out by now!" Gertrude exclaims as she takes a seat on the brunet's bed. Enoch mumbles something about not knowing; though he feels a lot better, he claims. A quick glance at him tells Draco that there's a small frown furrowing into his brow, a look of slight discomfort. He assumes it's the emotions—the Slytherin can't sense them but he thinks that group would have loud emotions.

"Well, you missed the first trip to Hogsmeade. We brought you back some sweets, though." A huge of bag, rustling with an assortment of lollies, is placed on an empty space of Enoch's bed (which, with everyone clambered on, is rather small). Immediately, Gertrude begins rummaging through it and pulling little boxes and packets out, handing most to Enoch while also giving a few double ups to the rest of the group. Draco peers over again, notices that the Benton boy is staring at him with a funny look in his eye, and returns to staring blankly into space.

"_It's Malfoy,_" Elijah hisses to his Gryffindor friend. Draco assumes they're both staring at him now—perhaps the whole group is, because all the rummaging has gone quiet. Except for the quiet pop of a box lid being opened followed by a surprised yelp from Enoch. The chaotic noise of the friends starts again as they chase a chocolate frog.

Despite being order unfairly by Madam Pomfrey to stay in bed, Draco decides to take a walk. Maybe he can go back to his dorm, get some books to read while he's stuck here—do something, _anything_.   
  
  
  
  
  


When he returns, the group has thankfully left. Enoch sits alone on his bed, playing some kind of game with an empty box. He stops when Draco walks in, an embarrassed pink flush spreading across his nose—but the older boy says nothing. He dumps the books he'd managed to collect before being caught by Snape onto the end of his bed, before going to climb back on himself. But Enoch, of course, stops him.

"Do you want some?" The brunet asks, waving an arm out at all the magical sweets that have spread themselves across his bed. There's too many for one person, that much is clear, and it's astounding his friends actually bought that much for him. Maybe they thought he was going to be in here for a while longer. Either way, Draco shakes his head and continues to hop into his bed. "Please... I can't eat them all. I don't even like these... things." Enoch grimaces as he knocks a box of jelly beans, "Who thought dirt flavoured jelly beans were a good idea?"

"I once got one so disgusting, I am still unsure what it was actually flavoured." Draco comments, before remembering he's trying to keep their interactions to the bare minimum. With a small sigh, quiet enough that only he'd hear it, he pulls the first book off the pile. He's read it a thousand times, possibly more, and knows it from cover to cover. But still, he reads it again in the hopes that maybe it will reveal some kind of secret.

He's scanning the first page when a box suddenly hits the side of his head. It falls onto the pages, revealing itself to be a chocolate frog. The blond stares blankly at it for a moment, before his unimpressed gaze raises to the clear culprit. Enoch sits, grinning mischievously, on the other bed.

"I don't want it." He says innocently, as though that perfectly explains his actions. Draco stares at him a moment longer.

"Neither do I, Enoch." He pushes the box away, off his book. Attention returns to that, ignoring the younger boy still watching him intently. It's hard to stay focused when Draco can feel Enoch's gaze on him—it tingles, the way skin does when you're aware someone is watching. He's read the same line, a line he's read countless times already, another five times. The count rises to ten before he gives up, quiet huff leaving his downturned lips as he shuts the book. Glancing around the room, looking everywhere but Enoch, he wonders when they'll be allowed out.

He's beginning to feel like a prisoner in the infirmary—its stone walls are growing suffocating, almost claustrophobic.

Draco is fixating on the walls, a small bubble of panic growing in his stomach, when he feels a hand rest over the top of his own. Instinctively, he withdraws his hand, pulling it closer to his chest, and glances down. Enoch is creeping beside his bed, looking as startled as the Slytherin feels.

"Don't." Draco growls. Deep inside, though he refuses to acknowledge it, he's touched by the boy's stupid desire to help.

"It tasted bad... Just wanted to fix things, for both of us." Continuing to glare at him, the blond manages to scare Enoch back to his bed. He feels a little bad, as he watches the sad expression on the younger's face, but he pushes this down—can't have Enoch sensing that too. 


	11. Chapter 11

Draco isn't one for crying. It was drilled into him from a young age that crying was bad, a sign of weakness, and something a Malfoy should refrain from doing. Weakness was another thing he was taught was bad, another thing that shouldn't be associated with him. But now, as he suffocates in the stifling darkness, he thinks he's feeling a lot of both right now. He hasn't felt this fear of the darkness in a long time-not since he was a small child-but right now it feels like it's choking him. He can almost feel cold fingers wrapping around his neck, constructing his airway. It's probably better he can't breathe, because the alternative is gasping for air and that would risk his sleeping housemates catching him.

He blames the letter from his mother, followed by a talk with Snape. The Dark Lord wants to see some progress. He thinks Draco is stagnating, avoiding the job, like the failed attempt with the necklace doesn't count. He _needs_ to see something―Draco needs to do something.

It's been on his mind all day. He _has_ been avoiding action, procrastinating by reading book after book in the hopes that it might look like he's doing the job. Even the necklace, he'd known the chances of that succeeding were slim. The truth is, the job terrifies him; he can't deny that, not to himself. His task reminds him of how weak he really is, and he's certain he's been set up to fail.

As a particularly bad bout of nerves rolls over his body, the boy gets up. His legs feel like jelly but he forces himself to sneak out as quietly as he can. Scowl already resting on his face, he's ready to snap at anyone he might encounter as he creeps through the halls. He can't stay in the dorms, not in the state he's in, where anyone could see; so, he goes to the most abandoned place he can think of, where he doubts he'll encounter any people. Or, second most abandoned place.

Sure enough, a quick check after he enters the second floor girl's bathroom tells him no one else is there. He still feels watched, but brushes it off as paranoia. He's filled with paranoia, constantly certain the Dark Lord is watching him.

The second he's locked himself in one of the cubicles, he lets out the breath he's been holding. It comes out shuddering, filled with tension, and warning of the tears close behind. He pushes those tears down, blinking as fast as he can in the hopes of stopping any liquid that might start collecting in his eyes. Resting his head in his hands, running them through his already slicked back hair and down his face, he sighs again. The most he can do-can allow himself to do-is sigh and even that feels like a resignation, a sign of weakness.

"Why are you crying?" The voice, curious with a hint of teasing, startles the blond boy and he visibly jumps. This causes a small giggle and, almost immediately, a scowl takes over his expression.

"I'm not." He snaps, or tries to. Even he can hear the tremble in his voice that gets rid of any bite, reducing it to something more... pitiful. As he looks up at the unexpected intruder, he blinks rapidly; no tears have fallen yet, thankfully, but some have collected within his eyes. He hopes the person―a girl, pale to the point of translucent―doesn't notice. (_She does_). "What are you doing here?"

"Well," The ghost heaves a great sigh as though she's been incredibly put out and pouts, "I _was_ trying to rest but your sniffles were making it impossible to relax. I thought you might be a girl―a lot come here to cry-but... you're not. You're even better."

Draco doesn't know how to take this, so he chooses to ignore it. Briefly caught off guard, he allows his composure to drop, but immediately returns to scowling.

"So, why were you crying?" The girl repeats as she floats closer to the Slytherin, almost 'sitting' beside him. Draco shuffles on the seat, wanting to put more distance between him and the girl.

"I wasn't. I was just... resting."

"In the girls' toilets?" When Draco nods unconvincingly, she giggles again. Her laugh is so loud, he's worried she might attract the attention of someone else. "You can tell me, you know. I won't tell anyone... Hardly anyone visits me down here, anyway."

"There's nothing to tell." But Draco feels a little bad when she looks disappointed. He could never confide in a ghost, but he still wishes she wouldn't look so sad. There are enough sad people in this room already. Unable to stand it, not wanting to avoid explaining himself further, the boy gets to his feet and adjusts his clothes. "I have to go back, before someone notices I'm gone."

"Hey wait! Don't go." As the younger leaves the cubicle, Myrtle floats after him. She stays ahead of him, trying to get him to stay without every touching him. "People never talk to me, not unless they're making fun of me. I just want some company-you don't even have to tell why you were crying."

"Even if I wanted to stay, I couldn't." Draco sighs, but he can relate to the girl and that brings along a pang of sympathy. Maybe his father was right: crying―or near crying―does bring weakness, because he looks at the girl with what he hopes is a softer expression. He tries to smile, but it feels wrong on his lips and immediately drops. "Maybe, if you don't tell anyone what you saw here, I'll be able to come back."

Moaning Myrtle gives a wide smile, nodding eagerly, "I won't tell a soul."

Draco isn't sure he can trust the ghost just yet, but there's certainly nothing else he can do.  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  


Enoch spends most of their class scribbling down notes intently. So intently, in fact, that he barely talks to Draco for once. He does at the start, while they're sitting around waiting, and in that space the older boy is certain he makes up for all that silence. Maybe it had been part of the plan because, even if he'd wanted to speak, he wouldn't have been able to get a single word in anyway.

It's only closer to the end, when the blond glances over at him curiously, that he starts to realise what he might be doing.

"What's that?" He hisses, not wanting to draw the attention of the teacher back to them. Enoch glances up from his book, staring blankly at the older as though he doesn't comprehend why he could possibly be asking that. Draco nods down at the page, which is filled with the younger's messy handwriting. Except, now, it's beyond comprehensible: the letters, while recognisable, are arranged in orders that create nonsense. "What are you writing?"

"My notes." The transfer seems insistent on continuing this innocent facade. But, of course, the boy's like an open book; the twinkle of amusement is already sparkling in his eyes, lips quirking as he struggles to keep a straight face.

"Why are you writing in code?"

"It's not..." Enoch glances down at his page, possibly in an attempt to hide the wide grin that quickly blossoms on his lips, and then looks back up. He's really smiling now, can't even hide that. "It's in French."

"That doesn't look like French."

"It's my French." Enoch says so casually, as if this explains everything. It does not.

Draco lets out an unimpressed sigh as he decides not to humour this, "You know I can't read _your_ French, right?" The younger nods, slowly, possibly uncertain. "And I copy your notes."

"Oh." The smile, looking dangerously close to a giggle, grows larger as Enoch must reach why he started all this. Draco can't deny, he is half interested in what compelled the boy to pull this joke. But only half. "I guess, we'll have to meet up after class, and I'll translate it." The Slytherin boy is taken back for a moment. He had expected something more than a simple attempt to spend more time with him. Unless, of course, there's more to this prank to come. His brief silence must be taken as a simple refusal, because Enoch continues, "It won't take long. And I know a spot in the back of the library, barely anyone goes there, so you won't have to worry about being caught with someone who's the son of... a normal person."

"Normal person?"

"Yeah, no magic. My dad―you don't like him, remember?" Right. Draco hadn't forgotten―he couldn't forget something like that―but maybe he'd just wishfully chosen to ignore it. If it weren't for that one taint, and of course his unbearably bubbly personality, he and Enoch might have been able to be friends. Or something of the sort. Draco huffs, making sure his displeasure is clear. Though he's not entirely displeased.

"I guess I don't have any other choice, do I?"

"You could learn how to read my French," responds Enoch rather impishly, grin still spread across his lips.

Draco can't help but smirk at that.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco is surprisingly punctual. Surprising, because Enoch hadn't expected him to show up at all. Sure there wasn't a lot the older boy could do, but he hadn't expected to be so successful. He can barely contain a pleased smile as he watches through one of the bookshelves, as Draco wanders slowly through the library, clearly searching for him as casually as he can.

The Hufflepuff had sensed his entrance almost instantly, the distinct lemon and petrichor rolling over his senses. The brine had grown stronger too, though that had already been there. It took a matter of seconds to spot the boy, a task only made difficult because of his determination to find him _through _the books. However, the striking white blond hair stands out fairly well. As he takes in the Slytherin's appearance, Enoch's displeased to note that the other boy still doesn't look too good—he looks better than he had before the infirmary trip, but his sharp features are still gaunt and he looks like he needs a good, long sleep. Maybe a good dinner too. And a hug.

But Enoch doesn't think he'd accept any of them.

Right when Draco looks ready to leave, Enoch pokes his head out from the aisle. He expects to have to wave, maybe call out the boy's name, but the blond notices him instantly. Confusion leaving his expression, he heads towards him; at least twice, he glances around at the other students quietly studying or chatting.

"Over here." The transfer whispers as he leads Draco down the aisle, around to a small little corner. His books and bag are already spread out across the space, having already settled in during his spare. The older boy frowns at the lack of a desk and chair but when the brunet sits, he doesn't have many other options. Enoch sits right in the corner, back pressed against the wall, while Draco perches across from him as though he's unsure where to sit and how to hold himself. He looks uncomfortable and the younger moves his bag, patting the now clear space beside him. Clearly unwilling, the male slides over and sits down in the spot. Once sat, he scooches away a little more, as though he's afraid to be too close to Enoch.

"_Hungry_..." Enoch mutters to himself as he rubs his stomach, gazing around the place. Draco is visibly uncomfortable, not wanting to be here at all, and it's contagious; the younger boy had been fine, but now he feels incredibly awkward. Not wanting to make eye contact—or really interact with the other boy at all—he busies himself by rummaging through his bag. Right at the bottom is a warm thermos and his little box of candies. He grabs both of them.

The blond is visibly surprised to see the almost picnic-like set up Enoch produces. The surprise quickly morphs into a more controlled confusion—a raised eyebrow, nothing more. But Enoch ignores him as he pours some of the warm tea into a cup and takes a sip. With the effects almost instant, the Hufflepuff feels a calmness wash through him as the herbal tea heats him from the inside. Draco is forgotten as he enjoys the first sip and the emotions attached. It helps lift the awkwardness inside of him just a little—enough to focus on the task at hand.

"Do you want some?" The brunet offers, gesturing at the other cups that came with the set resting in his bag. Draco shakes his head quickly, leaning back against the wall. There's an air of nonchalance wrapped around him, an indifference radiating from his blank stare. Enoch thinks that's what makes him the most uncomfortable—the lack of everything; it makes it impossible to tell where he stands. And he hates that.

"I'm not here to have a picnic. I came here because I need your notes." Enoch nods slowly. The mentioned notes rest inside his bag, already translated because he's been here a while and didn't want to write an essay. It would be quite easy to just hand them over, be done with it, but the younger isn't quite willing to relinquish Draco's company just yet. It's not often he catches him outside of class, without the other Slytherin kids that cause him to grow colder and meaner. 

"You can have them... _if_," The eyebrow raises again, uncaring but questioning and suspicious all at once, "You help me."

"With what?" Now he pulls the sheets of paper from his bag, spreading them out across the floor until he finds the one he's after. Pointing at a few lines, the boy reveals the area of Alchemy he's been struggling with the most: remembering what elements can transmute into what.

As Draco glances over the lines, a small huff of air that Enoch likes to think is a laugh leaves his lips. There's certainly a smirk alighting his eyes and lips, but it isn't as harsh as some of the smirks the boy gives. Enoch really hopes it's a form of amusement—but hopefully not a cruel one.

"You might find it easier to remember," The blond Slytherin eventually says, the ghost of the smile still resting on his lips, "if you turn it into a chart. Pass me..." Now the smile leaves as he's handed a pen, rather than the quill he'd expected, and is replaced with a sort of grimace. He frowns at Enoch, judgement passing over his expression. But then he sighs, shakes his head, and takes one of the pieces of paper. "See, it's a bit easier to understand if you organise it like this."

Enoch shuffles closer to Draco, _almost_ pressed against him but not really, peering over the older boy's shoulder as he begins to draw out the transmutation table. His handwriting is rather neat, though a little shaky with the less familiar instrument. Sipping his tea as he listens and watches, the brunet feels himself getting a little more comfortable.

And, he's quite surprised to note, the older boy's body—even with the small distance between them—does in fact radiates warmth. Maybe he isn't so cold blooded after all.   
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  


It's later in the afternoon when they leave, almost evening. Draco hadn't intended to spend that long with the younger boy, planning on getting what he needed and leaving, but Enoch needed everything explained to him twice (to make sure it stays in his head, he claimed). He hadn't minded so much though, barely noticing until he glanced up at the window and saw the sun starting to get low.

As they go to leave, wandering slowly from the quiet library, Enoch offers the blond a piece of lemon candy but is once again rejected with a shake of the head and slight grimace. They unintentionally walk in step, neither meaning to walk together but also not doing anything to stop him. There's a silence between them, but for once it doesn't feel awkward—Draco doesn't feel as awkward, at least. They just walk.

Until, of course, Crabbe and Goyle appear. The sight of them reminds Draco of what he's doing, who he's associating himself with, and it all disappears. He tenses up, scowl spreading across his face (though he's not sure if this is really directed at Enoch, and more at the other two).

"Move it, transfer." Draco mutters and shoves past the unsuspecting younger male. He immediately feels regret bubble up inside him—something he's not used to feeling—and does his best to suppress it. Approaching the other two Slytherin, he wonders how they found him. Hopefully no one spotted him with Enoch and their appearance is merely a coincidence.

"Hey, wh–" The brunet is silenced with a glare; it was supposed to be a quiet message telling the boy that he has to maintain this front even if he can tolerate the younger to some degree, but all he can really manage is a malicious glare. He hopes Enoch can sense somewhere, probably deep down inside of him, the slightly less harsh emotions. From the look on his face, he can't. The hurt frown taking Enoch's face, turning into a sort of glare, feeds the regret.

With a rude jerk of his head, Draco dismisses the younger, trying to get him to leave before worse things are said or done. Thankfully this works, and Enoch storms past him.

But it doesn't make the blond feel any better. And this alone makes him feel worse, not quite right. 


	13. Chapter 13

Enoch is annoyed with Malfoy. Yeah, that's right, _Malfoy_, not Draco—_that's_ how annoyed he is. Just thinking about the blond makes his jaw clench. He'd really thought they'd been making some kind of progress, that the Slytherin boy had been getting slightly nicer. Or, at least, he'd hoped that was what was happening. Their library session had been surprisingly pleasant, so that had to count for something surely. Except for the end, which is causing Enoch all this grief right now.

But he's mostly annoyed at himself, for so desperately looking for the good he's not even sure is real now. It could be wishful thinking for all he knows, a delusion created to make himself feel better. He's the one who kept looking for the good, kept pushing it even when Malfoy seemed to eager to coldly shove him away. He's the one who suffered through the cold shoulder after cold shoulder just for a little bit of warmth. So yeah, he's mostly annoyed with himself.

Still, it's surprisingly hard to sit next to Draco and keep up his annoyed distance. The overwhelming amount of brine rolling from the boy makes it hard to focus on anything but that, and Enoch has gone through five lemon drops in the first half of the class. On top of that, he's really stuck on this Alchemy work. A quick glance over tells him Draco is, unexpectedly, having a far easier time than him. But the brunet can't ask for help, all he can do is sit, suffer and hope the answer comes to him.

Enoch wants to forgive Draco, he really does. And not just so he can break this silence and ask how to figure out this question. When Draco isn't being a total prat, the boy is actually relatively pleasant company. Enough for Enoch to, in those rare moments, consider him a friend. But, they're just too rare, and the transfer student refuses to let himself be treated so roughly for a reward so small.

"Why do you keep huffing so dramatically?" The quiet hiss of Draco's voice cuts through Enoch's thoughts. It startles him, to the point where he nearly breaks his own plan and goes to look up at the blond boy next to him. But, fortunately, he doesn't; instead he merely jumps lightly, eyes kept glued to his page. "And, more importantly, why are you ignoring me so obviously?"

Enoch doesn't look up. A burning sensation rises up the side of his face and he assumes Draco must be staring at him. As a hint of chilli brushes against the younger male's tongue, he stifles an uncomfortable cough. The spicy sensation doesn't ease up, if anything it lingers, growing worse with each second. Enoch grabs a lemon drop, quickly letting it rest against his tongue to try and block out all other tastes.

Eventually—though it feels like a lifetime—Draco stops watching him. The chillies ease up, giving the poor boy's mouth a much needed release from its pain.

"Have it your way, transfer."

And that, hurts just a bit more than the chillies.  
  
  


**. . .**  
  
  


"Come on, we're going to be late!" Elijah calls out from the head of the group, pushing past other students while glancing back at his straggling friends. There's an excitement buzzing inside of Enoch that he's caught from everyone around him. He's not quite sure what's going on—after class, he was rushed to the agreed meeting place by Gee with little explanation—but something is clearly happening.

"I heard Gryffindor had a bad practice," Philip pipes up as the group following the large student body outside, "and Malfoy isn't playing." Enoch tries to hide his sudden interest as his head perks up. For a brief moment, he forgets he's supposed to be cross; mild concern and curiosity takes its place.

"Might be a good match then."

"What's happening?" The youngest finally asks, glancing between his friends. They all seem to stare at him with the same expression of disbelief, as though the fact that he even has to ask is incomprehensible.

"We're going to watch Quidditch."

"Quid– _what_?" There's another pause, filled with the same kind of air as the first. Gee breaks it by laughing, shaking her head.

"I forget you were homeschooled sometimes." There's a large stadium ahead of them, which seems to be their destination. Students are filing into it, guided by the watching teachers. The tall boxes of seats are coloured to match the houses, but Philip seems to disregard that. Not that that's anything new.

As they settle down on a bench, Enoch is able to gaze out at the field. It looks a lot like a soccer or football field, only the goals are tall hoop-like structures. After taking this in, and gaining no further understanding from it, he looks to Gee expectantly.

"So what's... this?" He asks, gesturing vaguely at the field in front of them.

"Y'know rugby?" Enoch nods. "It's like that but... with broomsticks and instead of a football you have, like, some smaller balls and uhh..." The girl sighs as she notices the blank stare she's getting. She nudges the Gryffindor boy beside her, who had been trying to steal some of the peanuts Elijah seemed to have conjured out of somewhere (his pocket). "Lip, explain Quidditch to Enoch."

"You don't know what Quidditch is?" Philip asks as he licks some salt from his fingers. Enoch shakes his head. There's some shuffling as Gee lets the older boy swap spots with her, now sitting next to the empath. Beside him, Gee gets a small handful of peanuts from Elijah.

"I haven't even seen it before."

Philip's jaw basically drops. "You've never seen it?" Another shake of the head. "_How_? It's– Oh, you poor boy."

"Just explain the game before it starts." Gee chuckles.

"Okay, so, there's seven people on each team. Three chasers and one keeper play the quaffle, and two beaters play the bludger. The seeker—that's Harry for Gryffindor, Malfoy's normally Slytherin but apparently he's sick or something—well, the seeker goes lookin' for the snitch. Finding the snitch can make the match, basically wins the game unless the point gap is too big. The snitch is worth 150 points, so..." Philip, thankfully, pauses to take a quick breath in. Enoch is absolutely lost. "Those hoops at either end, those are the goals the keeper protects. That's Ron—bright orange hair, can't miss him—for Gryffindor; haven't heard great things about him yet but, we'll see... Getting a quaffle through one of 'em is worth ten—that's the chasers' job. Bludgers are those nasty ones, beaters hit them at the other team and away from their team with bats. Can cause all sorts of accidents, exciting, really. This is all on brooms too, up in the air. Game goes until the Harry—the seeker—finds the snitch. That can last for days sometimes." Philip now draws his eyes away from the field to look at Enoch. "Make sense?"

Enoch wants to say no, that everything the older male just said has gone through one ear and out the other, but a whistle interrupts him and immediately takes everyone's attention. The excited stadium grows even louder as the teams begin, flying through the airs in a way Enoch would have thought was impossible. But then again, it is _magic_. Hoping that Philip's explanation might have sunk into his subconscious in some way, the brunet watches the match carefully. Blurs of players zoom around the field, sometimes pausing but rarely long enough for Enoch's eyes to focus. He can understand the sugary sweet taste in his mouth, even if he can't understand the game itself.

"If ya think this is great, you should see the real players." Philip comments in a brief moment of peace. He then starts screaming as a player does... something. Enoch misses it, too busy trying to follow one of the others zipping around.

A loud cheer rolls up the seats, pulling Enoch in. It brings with it a sudden wave of sensations, a mixture of excitement and disappointment. He assumes a goal, or something, has been scored from the way they're cheering. Someone's voice announces a point increase, confirming the empath's guess.

At what he assumes is the peak of the match, the emotions spike considerably. Enoch can't even focus on the match as wave after wave of smells, tastes, feelings all roll over him and he wonders if he might drown in them. A headache rests in his temple, not helped at all by the cheering around him. Another loud cheer fills the seats, maybe even some screaming. Enoch isn't sure what's happening, having closed his eyes at some point during the onslaught.

Breaking through the cacophony of emotions, suddenly, is a wave of sweet coolness. The cool clarity, with undertones of excitement, creates a stark contrast with the previous emotions that drags Enoch back to reality. He opens his eyes to see Philip hitting the bare skin of his arm excitedly, as he points off at something on the field. The curly haired Gryffindor doesn't even seem to be aware of the relief he's suddenly provided.

"Look, see, Harry got the snitch!" Philip exclaims as he looks back at his brunet friend. There's a wide smile spread across his lips, pleased as punch. "Gryffindor won!"

"A-Awesome!" Philip's smile doesn't fade at all. In fact, as he glances back the field to the now tired players, it seems to get even wider.

"That boy's amazing." He shakes his head, almost disbelieving. "Did you know he started as a first year? Wasn't even allowed, but he did _that_. Amazing!" He shakes his head again, whispering, "_Amazing_."

"We get it, _amazing_." Gee chuckles as she gives the older boy a nudge. Students have begun to start moving, watching the four expectantly to get out of the road. The gang quickly gets to their feet, filing out of the stadium much like they got in.

"Oi, Enoch," Philip taps the younger male once they're out, "You and me, we're gonna see a proper match together some day, yeah? I can't believe you've never seen one—it's, like, basically a crime." Enoch chuckles softly at his friend. "It'll be my Christmas present to you. You show me this boy band of yours, I'll show you professional Quidditch."

"Okay." The pair shake on this, gloved hand gripping unclothed. Philip seems to notice this.

"Nice gloves, by the way." He looks at them for a second longer. "Very you. Very... fancy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philip and Harry, the ship that can never be ):


	14. Chapter 14

The slow, repetitive clicking of Enoch's infernal muggle pen fills in the silence hanging between the two boys. The Hufflepuff has stuck to not acknowledging Draco's existence, blatantly ignoring him every chance he's gotten, but he certainly hasn't held back on making his own noticeable. For almost the entirety of the class, Enoch has been clicking his pen; Draco can't tell if it's unconsciously, like some kind of habit, or a purposeful attempt to annoy him. If it's the latter, he's certainly succeeding. Each click of the pen seems to echo through the blond's head, causes him to clench his jaw tight to the point where it starts to ache.

"Can you stop?" But instantly regrets the sharpness in his tone when that is what got them to this point, and sighs. When he repeats himself, he's only a little softer, "Can you please stop?"

He gets no response but the pen only clicks once more, and then it's silent. It's not a comfortable one, heavy with tension. Even with the younger boy refusing to explain anything, Draco is fairly sure he knows the cause of it—_himself_. But, it would still be nice to get a proper explanation, to know why the usual cheerful boy has transformed so suddenly into a dark storm cloud of frowns and silence.

So much silence.

In the corner of his eye, Draco sees Enoch run his fingers through his long locks, gripping them tightly as he frowns down at his paper. He's several questions behind the blond boy and has been for the past five minutes. It's clear he's stuck, too proud to break his apparent vow of silence to ask for help. Draco isn't going to keep pushing it by offering help; if the boy wants to be so stubborn, then so be it. It's not his classwork that will suffer... much. Though he does have to take more notes now.

Draco, on the other hand, finishes the class questions with ease. Which would be good, except for the fact that it give him more free time in the class, sitting idly as he waits for it to end. This means even more of his focus gets placed on the silent treatment he has been receiving from the new kid. As he glances at the brunet, they make eye contact for a split second but Enoch is quick to break it. A frown settles over the Slytherin's face.

This is really too much.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Enoch had been planning a speedy getaway out of class. Not only because it means less time spent with Draco and the moody feelings rolling around inside of him, but because he'd like to get to the library before his favoured spot is taken. He has a spare next, and would like to spend it well. But his plans to escape are brought to a swift halt as a cool hand grips his wrist as he walks through the door. Said hand pulls him to the side, against the wall. The burst of bitter lemons tells him who it is without even having to look, but he does anyway.

Draco is standing close to him, trying to keep out of the way of other students leaving the class, as he frowns down at the younger male. His frown, for once, doesn't seem to be one of disgust or displeasure; it seems to be filled more with confusion. His hand doesn't leave his wrist, causing the lemons to continue to wash over the brunet in waves. The emotions of the Slytherin boy overpowers any others around them, until it's all Enoch can sense. He can feel it flooding through him, running up his arm to the rest of his body, resting in his core.

"Stop doing that." The blond hisses, though Enoch isn't sure what he's done. He pulls his hand away sharply, the frown deepening. "My emotions are mine, stop taking them from me."

"Sorry, I don't even realise—honestly." Draco softens again as he sighs. Enoch then remembers he's supposed to annoyed at him and drops the older boy's gaze, staring blankly at a space on the floor. A faint hint of brine rolls over him and he glances back up; Draco is frowning again.

"I know you're supposed to be ignoring me, but could you come with me? Please." A small, hesitant nod from the brunet has the pair then travelling through the halls, pushing through the students heading towards their classes. Enoch blindly follows the older boy, at points struggling to keep up as he gets caught within other groups of students. As the blond powers through, it's hard to tell if he's even aware that his follower is straggling—but then he glances behind, pacing dropping a few steps to make sure Enoch isn't lost.

Eventually, after multiple turns and frequent glances over the shoulder from Draco, they appear to reach the destination. The blond boy glances around again, before pacing backwards and forth with a look of concentration on his face. Enoch watches in mild confusion, holding back his questions in case he disrupts... whatever this is. He waits, leaning against the wall. After a few more paces, the Slytherin comes to a halt in the centre, looking towards the wall. This draws Enoch's attention to it, where he discovers there is now a door there. He'd almost be surprised, if he didn't know magic existed and seemed to be the explanation for everything odd at Hogwarts. 

As Draco pulls the door open, he gestures quickly at Enoch and then steps inside. The brunet isn't far behind.

Inside, the room spans further than Enoch can even see; it's cluttered with objects, some piling so high they nearly touch the ceiling. A few objects, enchanted with magic, float around in the air above them. A path through the clutter is clear, which Draco immediately begins walking down. After a moment's hesitation, so overwhelmed by the appearance of the room, Enoch follows again. They don't walk far—only a few turns through the piles—but the Hufflepuff is certain he wouldn't be able to find his way back to the door. He's already lost all sense of direction.

Draco stops at a desk containing piles of books and paper. He leans against it as he turns towards Enoch, affecting a rather casual stance.

"Why are you ignoring me?" The blond wastes no time getting to the point. His expression remains blank.

"What is this place?" Enoch doesn't mean to avoid the question—okay, maybe he does—but his own questions are burning inside of him. It hardly seems fair that he's been dragged to some strange, magical room and then offered no explanation. Besides, he won't be able to think properly if he doesn't know; it'll be all he thinks about until he does. He also just wants a chance to gather his thoughts and feelings, before he tries to explain them to the boy standing across from him.

"Room of requirement." Draco responds without even a beat of hesitation or second thought. "Why have you been ignoring?"

"What's the room do?" A hint of spiciness reaches Enoch's tongue, but it disappears as soon as it arrives. None of this shows on Draco's expression.

"Becomes any room you need, good for meetings like this. Why have you been ignoring me?"

"I– You've upset me." Enoch answers honestly but immediately feels bad. A small rush of brine hits him, radiating from the other male. But still, his expression is empty.

"I gathered. But why?"

"You– You're inconsistent." This causes a change in the blond's expression: the frown returns, along with the mild confusion. His hand, resting on the messy desk, begins to pick at grain running along the edge. "One second, usually when there's no one really around, you're fairly nice—at the very least civil; but the second you seem to think someone might see, you grow cold and rude. It's– I can't follow what's sincere and what's not, even with my... empathy. Do you like me, hate me?"

"I–"

Enoch shakes his head, "Regardless of the answer, even if you like me and it's all an act, it's just not fair. I don't want to suffer through all those insults, just for a few moments where you help me with my work or give me some nice gloves. I-I can't—it messes with my head."

The brine just grows stronger until Enoch feels like he might be drowning in it. Draco's blank expression finally cracks as he slumps forward, Enoch thinks he sees a sad glimmer in those grey eyes.

"And last time, after we spend at least an hour where you didn't seem to be hating my company, you still go and shove me off like I'm nothing." The brunet sighs softly. He will admit, it feels lighter to be speaking this. He hasn't felt like he'd been able to properly open up to someone in a while. "It's just not fair."

There's a heavy pause, as Draco continues to pick at the grain. The silence between is only broken when a piece of the wood does, snapping against the blond's finger.

"I'm sorry." Remorse rolls from Draco, overwhelming the brine. Enoch unfolds his arms, leaning lightly against one of the piles beside him. A few papers fall loose, dropping to the ground before he can grab them. He leaves them on the ground, raising his gaze back to the Slytherin.

"I know. It doesn't change anything though." Draco nods solemnly. His own eyes don't meet Enoch's, instead staring holes into the floor in front of him. There's a few more seconds of silence, as the older boy seems to be thinking. The brunet breaks the silence, "Why... Why do you do it? What made you so cold?"

"It's a long, complicated story," says the older boy, brushing it off. He doesn't seem to make any effort to elaborate, leaning on that lack of an explanation as his reasoning.

"I have time. Plenty of time—I don't have any class next."

"We should find a seat."

The pair begin wandering again, moving further into the seemingly never ending room. Enoch follows Draco closely, not wanting to get lost and never seen again. They wander for about five minutes, before the blond spots a couch hidden between two large piles. He sits down, patting the space beside him that Enoch gladly takes. The couch is rather comfortable, even if it does look old and well-loved.

"You must know a bit of how blood is valued amongst wizards, right? I mean, your family—on your mother's side—is considered a strong and powerful bloodline. With the exception of your mother of course." Enoch frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't want to disrespect your mother again, but it's true. Amongst families like my own, your mother is considered a blood traitor. And your blood, well, it's been dirtied by your muggle father."

"Had your mother married a wizard, making you a pureblood," Draco continues, "It might have been a different story. But my family, our... situation, all values blood highly. Incredibly highly. I couldn't associate myself with you, not without facing possible repercussions."

Draco has begun wringing his hands together, vinegar starting to emanate from him. A lot of his blank composure has been dropped, the mask cracking, as a confused, nervous boy begins to shine through.

"I-I wasn't singling you out. I treat everyone that wouldn't be approved of by my family that way. You probably got it worse, though, being my Alchemy partner."

"That's stupid. How much magic is in someone's blood shouldn't– Look at me, only half the blood and I still got stuck with some abnormal magic mutation or something." Draco nods slowly, glancing up at Enoch. At his description of the empathy, the corner of his lips curl up into a smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes.

"It is. But, it's been that way for years... It's not going to change–"

"Of course not, not with that attitude."

Surprisingly, Draco laughs. "You really are your mother's son." Enoch isn't sure how to respond, especially after being told his mother is basically a disgrace if the wizarding world—or at least the wizarding snobs. "But sure, if more people were so open-minded, things would be different. Though, with the way things are headed..."

"What does that mean?"

Draco shakes his head, "Nothing."

"No, don't pull that one on me. What do you mean—where are things headed?"

"The Dark Lord, when– _if_ he wins, the wizarding world will be a lot more like my family."

"Are you really like that?" asks the brunette, his voice quiet. Draco, after a second of hesitation, nods.

"I am my parent's son, just like you are yours."

"I don't believe it." The Slytherin raises an eyebrow. "I don't believe someone as horrible as you're describing... is you. They couldn't fake being as nice as you do."

"I'm not that nice."

"You are still nice, sometimes... When you want to be. I could be friends with that Draco." The honey burst up, rolling in with the lemon to sweeten its usually bitter tang. Enoch notices that the blond is gazing at his shoes again. "Besides, there's the honey. Unless you just naturally smell of honey, or something."

Draco laughs again, a loud one this time as the honey increases, "I don't smell of honey, Enoch. I can assure you." There's a slight warmth to the blond's face that is usually absent; in this moment, he looks considerably less stressed. It does him wonders. "What was you sensed from me again?"

"Lemon, mostly. Brine and vinegar roll around too. Very occasionally, honey." Draco nods, like he understands everything the boy is saying. (He doesn't). "Oh, and petrichor. I don't know what that is. I've never met anyone who smells of petrichor—is it a perfume?"

Draco shakes his head, "No petrichor perfume either." Enoch reaches into his pocket, pulling the small tray of lemon candy from them.

"This is kind of what the lemon is like." He explains as he offers one to the blond. Taking one, Draco pops it into his mouth. His expression instantly contorts as he rolls the candy in his mouth.

"Merlin, that's sour. I put you through this all the time?" Enoch nods, but there's a grin on his lips. "No wonder you want nothing to do with me. Your mouth must be burnt."

"It's alright. I like it." The younger says quietly, before adding, "The candy—the sour lemon."

"If you say so." The honey reduces again as Draco's expression turns sober. "I really am sorry. I wish I could promise I wouldn't do it, but... my family, my upbringing. My opinions haven't changed."

"It's okay."

With a shake of his head, Draco says, "It's not. You were right, it's not fair on you. So... I will try, to be less inconsistent." Every one of the blond's words seem halted, as though each one is a struggle to get out. "Unless you've given up–"

"I haven't." Enoch quickly says, quicker than he even expected. "It might be poor judgement, but I haven't. Not yet." A soft smile, that looks foreign on his lips, curls across Draco's face.

"Thank you, Enoch."


	15. Chapter 15

Leaving his ferret behind in his bedroom had become a sort of habit for Enoch. A bad habit, one he really wishes he hadn't settled into. The pet seems perfectly content to nestle in amongst the brunet's blankets, mostly keeping him company after school and at night. But it did leave Enoch without the support during the day, which is arguably probably where he needs it most. Especially on days where everyone seems inexplicably more emotional than usual. Even with his gloves and the candy, it's nearly impossible to focus on anything but the swirl of emotions coming from the students around him on those days.

Thankfully, today is not one of those days.

But still, feeling bad that his ferret was stuck in his room on the weekend, Enoch has decided to go back to find him. The rest of his friends are in the library where he left them, pretending to study as they really find the most obscure books they can, reading out the weirdest lines they spot, or showing the funniest pictures. He'd been reluctant to leave them but his guilt had been weighing on him.

The halls on the weekend are fairly quiet, with most students hanging out in dorms, the library, or grounds. Enoch is able to make it to his room with relative ease. His pet is resting on Elijah's pillow, curled in comfortably.

"You're supposed to stay on my bed," scolds the brunet even though he knows Elijah wouldn't mind. The curly haired Hufflepuff seems rather fond of the ferret, even excitedly exclaiming when Enoch said he was going to get him. The ferret, when he's picked up, titters softly but settles into the empath's hands with ease. He radiates warmth, a kind that flows through Enoch's arms in a way that tells him it's an emotion thing. As he leaves the dorms, he lets ferret curl up around his neck and rest there. Enoch can feel his little breaths brush against his neck softly, punctuated every now and then by a content sigh.

As he's walking back, Enoch turns the corner and immediately wishes he hadn't: two students, standing a few metres apart, seem to be engaged in an angry discussion. A girl with a large bush of curly brown hair is talking quickly and loudly to an equally grumpy looking redhead, who seems like he's barely holding back a response. The second the brunet has entered the room, a flood of chilli rushes over him and he gulps. The spiciness burns his tongue, nearing an unbearable amount of pain. Picking up his pace, he does his best to push past.

But as he's passing the arguing pair, the girl pulls away, the argument clearly over (for now). Not having noticed the additional company, she bumps into Enoch. While the force of impact wouldn't normally be hard enough to receive much of a reaction, the anger and frustration that comes with the contact sends the empath staggering. His mouth burn as though it's on fire and it's all he can do to maintain his composure.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" The girl exclaims, adding some remorse to the mix of emotions Enoch is receiving. She goes to help him stabilise himself, increasing the waves of emotion. The Hufflepuff swallows the strong desire to retch as more chilli coats his tongue. "I didn't see you there. Are you alright?"

"F-Fine... Thanks," forces out the younger male, though he's sure he isn't very convincing. He pulls himself away from the Gryffindor girl and gives her a shaky smile. While the surface anger seems to have settled underneath her current concern, the spiciness hasn't lessened and neither has the pain. "Sorry, take care."

It's all Enoch can do not to run away from the pair, walking as fast as he can down the corridor and around the corner. He doesn't even notice he's gone the wrong way, back the way he came. The boy drops to his knees as another retch shakes through his body, thankfully bringing nothing but the pain. Blurring his vision, tears start to prick his eyes. He settles into a crouched position, panting heavily in a desperate attempt to reduce the burn across his tongue. It does nothing.

For as long as he can remember, Enoch has never been able to handle spicy food. The chilli, its flavour and its burn, has never done anything for him; any meal with even the slightest amount has just been a torture session. Naturally, he'd been overjoyed to discover that any emotion on the anger spectrum is some variation of chilli or spiciness. His parents had always been careful with their anger, taking it away from him unless they couldn't help it; he'd grown comfortable.

The brunet hiccoughs as he waits for the burn to leave, lingering far longer than it should. He sniffs, his nose running as a tear runs down his cheek. So engrossed in trying to fight through the pain, he barely notices when his ferret crawls from his spot and runs off.   
  
  
  
  


Draco comes to an abrupt halt as a white ferret scatters out from around the corner. His eyes grow wide as he stares at the small animal, memories of his brief period as one come flooding back. The ferret stares back at him expectantly, squeaking quietly. Then, when the blond does nothing, it runs around in a circle and looks back at him. It makes another noise—it definitely wants something. But, not being able to speak ferret, Draco isn't sure what he can do.

He swears the ferret sighs, frowning at him like he's some kind of idiot and Draco has never felt so insulted by a small _animal_. The little white creature runs back the way he came. Draco goes to keep on walking, assuming the strange interaction is over, but the ferret comes back.

"D-Do you want me to follow?" Draco hisses, after quickly glancing around to make sure no one catches him talking to a ferret. Potentially in confirmation, this ferret runs off again. It takes Draco a second, but he reluctantly follows. The ferret scampers off ahead, impatiently pausing and glancing back every few seconds as though he's disappointed the blond is taking so long. Once again feeling insulted, Draco picks up his pace to match the animal's.

He understands the ferret's urgency when the small creature comes to a halt. It takes him less than a second to spot Enoch, curled up against the wall with his head in his hands. The boy looks as though he's in pain and, almost instinctively, Draco takes a step forward towards him. But then he pauses, as the ferret runs around his feet. His memory flashes back to when they spoke, to the sour lemon that felt as though it was burning his mouth. If his emotions felt like that, along with all the other things, he couldn't imagine that'd help the brunet right now. There's no way he could help him, even without the empath issue. What could he possibly do?

With the ferret following, making confused and annoyed noises at him, Draco begins his search across the school. He starts in the grounds, doing his best job to scan the area as quickly as possible. When he stops at the entrance, the ferret suddenly climbs up his legs, up onto his shoulders. The claws hurt slightly, but the pain is only brief.

"What are you doing?" He asks the ferret, taking him off his shoulders and holding him in his arms instead. Last thing he needs is to be caught with a ferret for a scarf. The animal doesn't seem to concerned, keeping watch from the thin arms. Draco can't lie, he does have a certain kind of charm to him.

Realising there's no way he can comb the entire school quick enough to get help for Enoch, Draco grabs the nearest, unsuspecting Hufflepuff he passes. The young boy's eyes grow wide—in fear, maybe?—as he comes face to face with the grumpy-looking Slytherin.

"Where's Gertrude Jones?" The blond asks, but only gets stammering in response. "Spit it out, I don't have all day."

"I-I-I think I saw he–her in the library." Draco lets the boy go, running off to the library without another word. He doesn't have time to waste on someone who's outlasted their usefulness. Now he rushes off to the girl Enoch has grown so close to, who thankfully hasn't moved from the library with the other two friends.

"Jones." Draco calls out as he approaches, receiving three suspicious frowns in response. He ignores them, focusing purely on Gee as she watches him curiously. He _definitely_ ignores the way the curly haired boy shies away from him—that definitely doesn't bother him, not even a little bit. "Enoch needs you, now. Or someone who will help him."

"What's wrong with Enoch? Did you do something to him?" A dangerous glint flashes over Gee's eyes and even her Gryffindor friend seems to tense up, as though he could punch Draco at any moment. Even the other Hufflepuff's expression grows concerned. Why must these other folks always expect the worst when Slytherin's involved? Or maybe it's just him.

"I don't have time to explain. He's on the second floor." Remembering the pet in his arms, Draco passes the ferret over to the girl. "If you're unable to find your way there, this ferret can show you where Enoch is."

"Why do you have Enoch's ferret?" The curly haired Hufflepuff pipes up and Draco feels annoyance bubble up inside of him. He's glad Enoch isn't around because his friends are being a bit difficult right now. But, he pauses; he takes a second—all the time he can sacrifice—to close his eyes and exhale slowly.

"As I said, there's no time. Find Enoch, let him explain." Draco watches the way all three go to move and instantly realises how bad an idea that is. "Only one of you! Jones, you go. Anymore and he'll be overloaded."

Gee frowns at him but, thankfully, they must have realised the urgency because none of them argue. The Hufflepuff rushes off, leaving Draco with the other two. He looks at them both, watching the way they both seem to be sizing him up.

"I didn't hurt him." He says, though he's not sure why he cares what they think. Neither seem convinced and he knows he's not wanted—he doesn't want be there either. With that said, the final word, he walks off.

He can't remember what he'd been doing before. And now all he can think of is how he hopes Gee is able to help Enoch.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


Enoch thinks he's getting control over the spiciness. The burn isn't quite as all-consuming as it had been, but he certainly couldn't get up just yet.

"Enoch?" He tastes a burst of citrus and, at first, he thinks it's Draco. But then he realises it's too sweet—it's Gee. He looks up, feels the concern radiating from her. His ferret is resting in her arms, but he quickly jumps from them and rushes over to the brunet. He bumps his small head against his hand, giving it a small, comforting lick. "Are you alright?"

"Uh, y-yeah, I'm just... I... It's..." Enoch frowns. Suddenly he regrets not explaining the empathy to his friends.

"Here, you don't have to explain. Can you stand?" The brunet nods, though he's not entirely sure. He hopes he can. The girl crouched down, wrapping an arm around his body. The oranges go strong but, after the chillies, it's a relief. "I'll help you up. Ready?" Enoch nods again. They manage to stand with relatively ease. He still leans against his friend, relying on her for support. "C'mon, lets go back to the dorms. Slowly, take your time—there's no rush. If you don't think you can walk, I'll get Philip and he can carry you."

"I-I can walk," He responds quickly, though not without a chuckle. It's reassuring, to the other girl. They begin their trek, with the ferret running around them.   
  
  
  
  


"Malfoy, of all people, came and got me, said you needed help." Gee says as she hands the brunet a glass of water from the kitchens. She sits down on the bed beside him, brow furrowed into a frown. "He didn't... do anything, did he?"

"I didn't even know he was there..."

"And you'd tell me the truth, if he had, wouldn't you?" Enoch nods, which in return receives a nod from Gee. "Good. I just, don't want him hurting you. Don't want anyone hurting you, or any of my friends."

"It's okay... I don't think he would."

"Can you tell me, why you were like that?" Gee asks after a pause, clearly hesitating. "You don't have to, don't feel–"

"It's okay. I, uhh, I've been meaning to tell you." At this, Gee turns her whole body towards the brunet, curious frown on her brow. "I can... sense emotions. Other people's emotions affect my senses. It's why I was held back from school, why I wear these gloves now." Enoch pulls nervously at the hem of his gloves, thumb running over the embroidered 'DM'. "Sometimes the emotions are a bit overwhelming, I can't handle them. Like earlier, I bumped into someone who was upset and all I could taste was chillies."

"W-Wait, you can _feel_ other people's emotions? Through your _senses_?"

Enoch nods, "Like an empath, of sorts."

"That is so cool!" The girl's expression has brightened as an impressed smile curls right up to her eyes. Then she coughs, shuffles, and tries to regain her composure. "I mean, that seems difficult."

"No, you're right, sometimes it is cool." The brunet chuckles. He's grateful for her response, because it makes him feel a little better about it all. Though it does make him feel a little foolish, as he's been fearing he'd be treated like some kind of freak.

"Is _that_ what happened when you got sent to the sick bay?" Enoch nods, comprehension flashes over Gee's face. "That makes sense! We'd been wondering why, it happened so suddenly."

"I-I learnt, I can take bad emotions away sometimes. But I can't control it and usually I just get sick." At this moment, the dorms open to reveal Elijah and Philip. The pair of them both look concerned, but some relief takes over it at the sight of the other two.

"Are you okay? Malfoy came with your ferret—we thought he'd done something." Elijah exclaims. 

"Did he do anything? I'll kill him if he did," adds the Gryffindor boy.

"Please don't kill him. Draco didn't do anything."

"Draco... Haven't heard anyone call him _Draco_ in a while." Philip comments as he frowns softly. Thinking back on Draco's own comments on image, the brunet shuffles uncomfortably.

"I'll never understand the wizarding world's obsession with last names." Enoch hopes he can brush it off as some kind of transfer thing. Thankfully he receives laughter and it seems to be dropped. When silence falls over the four, Gee sends a purposeful, questioning look to Enoch. After giving a small nod in return, the brunet looks at the two boys. He sighs softly, trying to gather some confidence.

At least there'll be one less secret between them now. 


	16. Chapter 16

"You have your elements mixed up." Draco comments as he peers down at Enoch's page, pointing at one of the rows in the table. He'd been getting the brunet to write it out, to see how much he remembers. It hasn't been going well. There's just something about Alchemy that doesn't stick in Enoch's head, like he's unable to properly comprehend it. It seems to come a lot easier to the blond, who claims he barely studies while still maintaining high grades in the class. Thankfully, though, he doesn't seem to mind doing a little bit of study in the back of the library; after the first meeting, it has become a bit of a regular occurrence for them to meet for note-transferral and a small amount of tutoring.

Taking the pen from Enoch's hand, Draco frowns at the muggle writing instrument but again makes no comment. He begins making corrections to the table, drawing multiple crosses and lines across the paper. The brunet watches silently, before he starts to feel bad about all his mistakes and starts rummaging through his bag. He pulls out the tub of lemon candy, popping one in his mouth. Then he offers one to Draco, who accepts after a second of reluctance.

"You enjoy these?" Draco asks, an expression that can only be achieved by eating something truly sour on his face. It brings a grin to Enoch's own, a light chuckle as he nods. "They're unbearable."

"You don't have to eat them, you know?"

"I know." The older boy confirms as he rolls the lolly in his mouth. There's a bit of honey resting at the edge of Enoch's taste, and the brunet thinks he secretly likes the candy. It makes him grin just a little wider. This makes Draco suspicious as he almost laughingly asks, "Why are you smiling like that?"

"I just find it funny." Draco just rolls his eyes.  
  
  
  
  


Draco can't take his eyes off the white ferret resting in Enoch's lap. The pet has been making much more regular appearances, with the brunet taking him everywhere from class to break. Draco isn't sure what that means about Enoch—_if_ it means anything about Enoch—but it does mean he's frequently tormented by its sight. And with its sight comes memories of his time spent as one. He still hasn't forgiven Moody for that, though he's passed the point of spending restless nights plotting his revenge.

"Does it have a name?" Draco asks as he peers down at the white nightmare. The question seems to take Enoch off guard, because he stares blankly at the blond. He looks so dumb, like there's nothing going on behind his eyes—but it's the forgivable kind of dumb, not the Potter kind of dumb. There's a lot of things he does better than Potter—Draco could write a whole list. There's a flash in his eyes and he shrugs.

"I call him Ferret, he didn't like any of my suggestions." As if he's just now been made consciously aware of the ferret, he starts stroking its fur softly. "He named himself Howie but I don't like it—I don't think the naming methods were right."

"So he doesn't have a name?" Enoch shrugs again. As Draco stares at the ferret, one name comes to him—one he doesn't dare to say aloud unless he sticks. But he knows, frowning at the ferret, that it's already stuck. No other name would fit it, not for him. No, against his will, he already has a nickname for it.

_Draco Junior._   
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  


Enoch feels the most free on the weekend, when he's able to relax in his normal clothes and rid himself of the stifling uniform. He's not sure how people like Draco, who he's never seen in anything but the uniform, survive. He'd go insane if he couldn't lay about somewhere on the school grounds, in a comfortable pair of jeans and a jumper of some sort now that winter has really started to settle in.

It does mean, however, he gets some odd stares that he just doesn't understand. Sometimes students, usually decked in silver and green, gawk and laugh at him like he's the strangest thing they've ever seen. He'd argue it's the other way round.

It's never been quite as bad as today, though. Today, as he's sitting on a ledge, looking out the window as he waits for his friends, a pair of Slytherin boys seem to set their sights on him.

"_What_ are you wearing?" One of them laughs, though it's not a particular nice laugh. It's a lot more malicious, directed at him in a way that offers Enoch no opportunity to laugh along. The brunet glances down at his clothes, seeing nothing particularly wrong with his outfit. It's even brand name, probably some of the more expensive clothes he owns.

"No wonder you're a Hufflepuff." The other adds, eyes raking his body. Now he shuffles uncomfortably. He can't sense a single good emotion inside of them; every emotion he can sense makes him feel slightly sick, so he tries to instead focus on the coolness of the rock underneath his fingers. He can feel that, even through his gloves. It's almost like the feeling Philip gives off. The second boy looks to his friend, "So obsessed with muggle things. Even has those pens in class."

"Bet he loves those stupid muggles, just like his mother—the blood traitor." At this, all Enoch can taste is chillies. His body tenses and he jumps to his feet, prepared to defend his mother. But then it occurs to him that he's never actually been able to sense his own emotions and that these must actually belong to someone else.

Maybe the person that's now planting his hands on both boy's shoulders, inserting himself in between them, bringing a hint of sour lemon. A familiar blond is glaring at the two boys—not even glaring, staring down at them like they're nothing but dirt.

"Are you really so pathetic you'd go for such a low blow?" Draco's voice is devoid of emotion, as is his expression. That blank mask rests on his face again, but it still seems to be enough to disarm the pair of boys. He gives them both a shove, wiping his hands down his robes like he's covered in germs. "Honestly, anyone would think you were as dumb as a Gryffindor."

It doesn't take long for the boys to disperse, especially when an ice-cold glare breaks through the blank mask. Once they're gone, Draco acknowledges Enoch for the first time; his expression has softened, but it is still pretty blank.

"Are you okay?" He asks, getting a quick nod from Enoch. Physically, he's fine; his pride is a little hurt though. "If you're so insistent on wearing muggle clothes, at least don't sit around in places where there's more Slytherins that will pick on you for it."

"How am I supposed to know where these spots are and aren't?" Draco starts moving, with Enoch only a few steps behind him. He misses the amused quirk of the blond boy's lips.

"Pay attention to your surroundings, for a start." Draco glances back at the brunet, gaze then drifting to something behind him. He frowns softly. "And don't hang around here. It's one of the quicker ways to the Slytherin dorm, so there'll be more of us."

The pair walk together for a few more corridors, before Draco tells Enoch that he has to go back to what he'd been doing before he'd _oh so selflessly _come to the brunet's rescuing. Enoch tells him he could have taken care of himself perfectly fine, but only gets a smirk in response. Draco's gone before the argument can continue.

Now, rather than waiting, Enoch goes to seek out his friends. He doesn't feel like sitting around anymore. 


	17. Chapter 17

"Hey Enoch," Elijah's voice whispers through the darkness, "Would you like to go to an exclusive Christmas party?"

It takes Enoch a long second to respond, mostly because he'd been half-asleep until he heard the older boy's voice cut through it. Then he grunts, mostly in confusion. 

"Exclusive Christmas party?"

"Yeah. Only... specially chosen students get to attend." Enoch is silent, everything taking him slightly longer to comprehend. But Elijah takes this as uncertainty, or more confusion, and he keeps talking. "You know Slughorn? He has a club—Slug Club—where we all get together, have dinner, talk. I got invited because of my family, had planned on declining or skipping but Mother said it was good for connections."

"Slug Club is an awful name. Sounds like you... do gardening or something, kill slugs, support slugs. _Slugs_."

There's some soft snorts of laughter in the beds around him. Evidently more than just Elijah and Enoch are listening to this conversation.

"It's all about the popularity and potential. A load of bull if you ask me." The boy in the bed across the room pipes up.

"You're only saying that because you weren't invited, Alexander." Another voice says. This starts an argument between the two boys, one that Elijah chooses to ignore.

"So yeah, anyway, would you like to be my plus one?" The curly haired boy asks, now propped up on the edge of his bed. Enoch can't see him, but he can hear him moving around. "You can borrow one of my suits if you'd like, Mother always makes me pack too many."

"Are you suggesting that I wouldn't have my own suit?" The brunet retorts, before he pauses, realising that he doesn't have his own suit. His bags were so full of comfortable clothes and his wizarding ones, he hadn't even thought to pack any in case of a formal event. He's not even sure he actually owns a suit, even at home. "Because... you'd be right."

"So you'll come?"

Enoch isn't sure he's making the right decision but, half asleep, he's not really sure of anything. He just hums in response, closing his eyes to the darkness.

The two boys are still arguing over why they weren't invited to the Slug Club.   
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  


Elijah looks at least two years older when he dresses up, hair slicked neatly back, suit fitting him perfectly. Something about it seems to make him stand up a little straighter, like dressing up boosts his confidence just a little—Enoch can't blame him. Though, on the other hand, he feels a bit silly all dressed up in his friend's suit. He'd feel silly dressed up in his own suit. He's never been much for dressing up, putting up a fight every time his parents told him to, wearing as casual as he can. Suits make him itch, feel suffocating in a way he can't even explain.

"Thanks for coming too." Elijah says as they're walking down the corridor. He hasn't stopped talking the entire way, though it's mostly been rambling about all the muggle movies he plans on watching when his Mother lets him out over the break. "Gee and Philip both said they had things on but I think they both really just didn't want to go. Can't say I blame them, it's going to be an absolute bore but appearances are important, I guess. Have to make those connections if I'm going to get anywhere in life."

"It's no problem." Enoch smiles, because it really isn't a problem. He's half curious about this 'Slug Club' anyway, to see what kind of thing gets landed with that kind of name. It's one unfortunate name, if you ask him.

"If it's really boring, I'm sure we'll be able to leave early. I don't think Slughorn likes me that much—likes my family more, like most people." Enoch frowns, goes to ask why but he doesn't even get a chance to speak. "There should be food. We can just scoff our faces and leave, maybe talk to some people. Harry Potter will probably be there."

"The Chosen One." Elijah hums affirmatively. "Why is he Chosen again?" The curly haired boy stares at him like he's insane for a second. Then he bursts out laughing.

"I can't imagine living a life not knowing about Harry Potter." The boy says once he's stopped laughing. "Harry Potter survived the killing curse. Apparently he's the one who can defeat You-Know-Who. He's been against him the whole time, but people have only just started listening to him recently."

"Why?"

"You-Know-Who came back." Elijah's voice is small and all Enoch can taste is vinegar. Waves and waves of it rolling off the other Hufflepuff, almost unbearably so. He can't help but shudder slightly, which makes Elijah pause. "Emotion thing?" Enoch nods, not fully used to them being in the know. "Sorry, it just... makes me nervous."

"It's alright, probably not the best pre-dinner topic anyway." Elijah shakes his head. Chatter starts to fill the corridor as they approach the room the party is being held at. The pair of them both get quieter as they join the party, both very clearly feeling out of place.   
  
  
  
  
  


The pair spend most of it standing awkwardly at different spots of the room, moving about at random so they don't feel entirely stupid. Small snippets of conversation pass between them, punctuated by the scoffing of food Elijah promised. Enoch doesn't eat a lot, nervous to eat some of this fancy, unrecognisable food; he's been sticking to vegetable pasties all term, as they're safe.

The room—Slughorn's office, as Enoch learns—is surprisingly large and full of people the brunet barely recognises. Not only are there students, but random adults he assumes must be famous or associated with the teacher. Most seem to be sticking to group, talking and smoking amongst themselves, while the students do the same, only brought together when the host drags them.

"Benton! So glad you could make it." Slughorn calls out as he approaches the pair, right as Enoch shoves an pie into his mouth. The brunet stares at him, cheeks full like a chipmunk, and does his best to swallow his food before the teacher potentially addresses him as well. The large lump of food hurts as he swallows it, but at least he's not stuck talking with his mouthful.

Elijah looks absolutely uncomfortable as the older man places a hand on his shoulder, and Enoch can feel the emotions radiating from him, but he smiles politely all the same. The curly haired Hufflepuff compliments Slughorn on his party, getting a nod of agreement from Enoch.

"Who's this—Who did you bring to the party?"

"Enoch Desrosiers, sir." Enoch is quick to introduce himself. He's used to meeting strangers in busy parties—it's about the only setting he's quick to adjust to the mess of emotions. His parents frequently hold them, though they're always small and consist of close friends or workmates. He shakes hands with the teacher.

"Ah, yes, you're in my class, aren't you?" Enoch nods his head, not sure how to take this. "You wouldn't be related to Valerie Desrosiers, by any chance, would you?"

"Valérie Desrosiers is my grandmaman." In an instant, Slughorn's whole demeanour changes. His hand still rests on Elijah's shoulder but it's clear his interest lies on Enoch now. He smiles in a warm manner, some kind of glint in his eye.

"Oh, that makes you Odeda's son—how wonderful! I've never had the pleasure of meeting your family but, oh, the stories I've heard." Slughorn glances back at Elijah, talking to him now. He points at Enoch, "His grandmother took down a dragon all by herself, heavily pregnant too. And the dragon came out completely unharmed as well!"

While Enoch was unaware of his parents' claim to fame before attending Hogwarts, he'd known plenty of tales from his grandparents. This is mostly because their tales usually serve as good bedtime stories for an excitable boy. His mother, when tucking him in bed, would always tell him something his grandparents had done. And then, when they visited the manor in summer, his grandparents—especially his grandpapa, always full of stories—would tell him even more.

"An amazing woman, I've heard so many stories about her all the way over here. They works closely with Newton Scamander, don't they?"

"Sometimes. When they get a creature they can't take care of." Slughorn nods as though he already knew this, as though he hadn't just been asking for some kind of clarification only moments before. The old man's gaze travels across the room, before his eyes light up.

"You'll have to excuse me, I've just spotted someone I have to talk to." Neither boy is sad to see him go. "Wonderful to meet you properly, Enoch. Don't be a stranger. Say hello to your mother, Elijah." The Potions teacher then rushes off to the entrance, calling out, "Harry! Harry, m'boy!"

"Well he's a character, isn't it?" Elijah chuckles lightly as they watch him go, but Enoch can sense that something about him rubbed the curly haired boy the wrong way. But he doesn't push it, simply chuckling as well. He watches as Slughorn approaches the Chosen One with his pale haired partner, talking to him rather excitedly.  
  
  
  
  
  


Elijah and Enoch are planning on leaving when it seems the final (unwanted) guest arrives. Filch interrupts the party and conversation, drawing most attention to him. Enoch sees the blond boy in his arms, tastes the lemon, and his attention is taken too. He watches as Filch speaks to Slughorn, looking far too happy. Draco, on the other hand, looks furious; the painful chilli only confirms this. He shoves himself away from the caretaker, glaring poisonous daggers at him.

"All right, I wasn't invited!" Enoch hears Draco spits over the general noise of the party. He's surprised, with what little knowledge he does possess, that a Malfoy wasn't good enough to make Slughorn's cut. Though, he's not quite sure what the requirements are exactly: he didn't make it either, and Slughorn seemed to like his grandparents.

Words pass between the teachers—Slughorn, Snape, Filch—and Draco. The blond Slytherin doesn't get any happier, even after Slughorn seems to dismiss the intrusion quite happily. All Enoch can taste is anger, sadness and fear, all rolling around his mouth—all radiating from Draco. And, in turn, all Enoch can feel is concern.

There's a moment, a brief second, when Draco's attention moves from the teachers surrounding him. Enoch is certain, though it's hard to tell from the distance, that they make eye contact. Maybe he just hopes they did. But, whether or not they did, there's a small flash of honey and a warmth in the pit of his stomach. The feeling goes as soon as it came, as soon as Draco looks up at the dark, greasy Head of Slytherin.

Enoch, along with Elijah, watches as Draco follows that same teacher out of the room. Harry Potter is almost seconds behind. The party quickly resumes as normal.

"Wonder what that was all about." Elijah pipes up, both boys still staring at the doorway. He gets a shrug from Enoch.

"Don't know..."  
  
  
  
  
  


Draco doesn't know what it is but, not long after he's dragged in by Filch, with everyone staring at him—their eyes dragging all over him, and stupid _Potter_ sticking his nose in something that doesn't concern him, _as usual_... not long after all that, he feels something. An unnatural warmth settling in his stomach, not unlike the feeling that remains after he's finished a bowl of soup or a hot drink. But he hasn't consumed either of those things recently. He hasn't even eaten since breakfast, which was a piece of toast; he's finding it harder to work up an appetite lately.

With the warmth feeling far too nice and comforting to be something that's originating inside of him, the blond quickly scans the room. Sure enough, there's a Hufflepuff very obviously staring at him; even at the distance, the concern in his eyes is noticeable. It's the same look he was given the first day they met, then again when they were in the sickbay together—a look that seems to be a common expression of his.

Whatever he's doing, Draco hopes it doesn't make him faint again.

He looks away quickly, both to avoid raising any suspicions and because he's being spoken to.

"I'd like a word with you, Draco." Professor Snape says, peering down at him. Draco doesn't like the way he's looking at him. He doesn't say anything, not wanting to make any more of a scene and give precious Potty more to talk about, but he does make sure to glare at Snape as he leaves the room.

The warmth leaves the second he does, and all he's left with is the usual cold. Normally he's used to it, able to ignore it, but now... Now he's had a taste of the warmth, he's not quite as willing to go back. 


	18. Chapter 18

Draco watches as everyone packs up for the Christmas break. He watches all his friends prepare to return home, to spend the holiday with their families. And then he decides he can't watch anymore—not when he's stuck at Hogwarts, forced to continue working towards the plan—and he leaves the dorm.

He wanders through the school, past excited students saying their goodbyes, discussing their plans for the break, past magical Christmas decorations. It doesn't take long for him to regret leaving the dorm. The place is so full of festivities and it's not even Christmas yet.

"Draco!" The blond pauses as he hears his name being called out, expecting it to be someone wanting to bother him with someone. He looks up and, instead, it's Enoch rushing up to him. With a small frown on his brow, he watches as the Hufflepuff closes the distance between them and comes to a halt less than a metre away. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"You have?" He's still not quite used to this. Enoch nods, curls rolling everywhere. His hair has grown quite a bit since he started. "I was in the dorm."

"Ah, that's why I couldn't find you." Draco nods softly. He glances around, pleased to note that there isn't anyone else around. He's not quite sure if he's more concerned about himself, or Enoch being associated with him. "Do you have any plans for Christmas?"

"I'm spending Christmas here." A look of absolute horror passes over Enoch's expression. It almost makes the older boy laugh, the way he seems to be completely disgusted by his plans.

"You're not going home? At all?" Draco shakes his head. "Do you want to come to my place for Christmas? We have heaps of people over, normally I just greet them all and then I go sit in one of the back rooms. We have heaps of food—like, a feast for _days_. Plenty of room for one more person."

"Thanks, but I can't." The disgust is replaced with disappointment. Draco might feel bad if it wasn't something he really couldn't go to.

"I'm sure there'll be plenty of witches and wizards who aren't blood traitors there. Even if you ignore that, my family seems to have a good reputation—surely that's enough to overlook one marriage."

"Maybe." Draco isn't that confident—people have been killed for less. He just shrugs, not wanting to turn the boy down anymore than he has to. "Is that why you were looking for me?"

"Oh, no, I have a present for you." _Well this is new_... Enoch brings his hands from behind him, revealing a small shape wrapped in what looks like their writing paper. The wrapping job is so poor, it's hard to make out its original shape. Draco has no hope of guessing what it is, but he accepts the gift anyway. Under the Hufflepuff's watchful eye, he unwraps it.

It's the tin of lemon candy.

Words Draco can't understand cover the tin but he knows, from the lemons that decorate its lid and the fact he's seen it in Enoch's hand so many times. Looking down at the tin, which is getting rather light, he can't help but laugh. Just a little. Enoch is smiling when he looks back up at him.

"I'm getting more when I get home, so you can have this. Y'know, in case you start to miss them, or you get... overwhelmed, or anything. That's usually when I eat them."

"Thank you." Enoch's smile grows wider and Draco hasn't even done anything. He's not really sure he can say anything--not _properly_. He looks back down at the tin. It's a tiny thing, really, but Draco can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. It's a tiny, _stupid_ thing but it means a lot. To Draco, at least.  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  


The second Enoch has spotted his family, he sprints towards them faster than he thought was physically possible for him. He doesn't even realise he's dropped his bags until Odeda has to grab them, using magic rather than walking through the crowd. He's glad the two of them are standing so close together, it makes it easier for him to tackle-hug them simultaneously. The couple chuckle softly at him, both wrapping their arms around him tightly. Herbal tea and popping candy has never tasted so good.

"_I've missed you so much_." It feels nice, being able to slip back into French so easily. There's been so many things he's missed, unconsciously, that all come flooding back to him. He could cry, he's so happy to be back with his family, to be back home where it's safe and quiet.

_Oh_, he is crying. That's embarrassing.   
  
  
  
  


Christmas starts almost the second Enoch walks through the doors, even though it's only the day before still. There's no guests, just the small family, but the smell of Christmas food has already begun to settle into the house. When the breeze blows in just the right direction, Enoch catches a whiff of pine and he can't even _see_ the tree yet. Christmas lights--ones they've had for as long as Enoch's been born, maybe even longer--sparkle in every spot they hang.

But, most importantly, everything feels like home. Enoch can't get over how homely everything feels. He swears it didn't feel that way before--or maybe he'd just grown so used to it, he'd taken it for granted.

"Guess what's for dinner." Alistair says, rather excitedly, as he places the large bag down on the ground. A few simple flicks of the wand and Odeda has it flying to the brunet's room. (_Oh, his room! He'd missed that too_). "Your favourite!"  
  
  
  
  
  


Enoch's favourite food isn't the same as it used to be. For one, he's never experienced it coming back up before. He's _never_ been so upset with it that his whole body has felt the need to violently dispel it.

It's comforting, the way his mother rubs circles around his back and mutters soothing phrases he doesn't _really_ hear, but it doesn't change the fact that his favourite food has made him sick. He's not sure if it's the pain of emptying his stomach or the pain of potentially not being able to eat this food again that's making him cry. But he's crying, again, and it's pretty ugly.

Later, they realise suddenly going from a diet of vegetable pasties to a bowl full of meat might not be the best way to reintroduce it back into his system.

Enoch can't believe he has to spend Christmas eating a plate full of Christmas vegetables and the _tiniest_ amount of meat, eyeing the other slices of meat longingly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


An owl flies in on Christmas Day, a small parcel hanging from its leg. This is unusual, because all of the family sends letters by post (even the wizarding side, the Desrosiers) and every other gift had already arrived. The family is even more confused (and curious) when they discover the parcel is addressed to Enoch, who hadn't been expecting anything. But he takes it, receiving an oddly haughty hoot in return, before the owl flies off again.

The brunet quickly unwraps the package, curiosity getting the better of him. Falling from the brown papers is a pair of white gloves and an envelope. Enoch picks up the gloves, which are incredibly soft, and smiles softly. He doesn't even have to read the letter to know who they're from. The gloves are almost identical to his other ones, except the trim is now gold and embroidered into the edge is only a "_D_". Placing them back on the brown paper—only for them to be picked up by a curious father, examined carefully by both his parents—Enoch turns to the letter. It's short and there's a few ink marks, but it's written in Draco's neat handwriting.

_Enoch,_

_Enclosed should be a pair of gloves. They're expensive, so take care of them. The material is thicker so it should protect you better, but breathable so you won't get too warm in the warmer months. And the colouring won't clash so much with your uniform. I would have gotten your full initials done but my parents had to think they were for me. Don't get any ideas, either. I just didn't want us to be uneven, given you got me a gift and I didn't._

_Merry Christmas._

_From,_

There's a series of lines, crossing out the different variations of Draco's sign off. Some are completely illegible under thick and heavy lines, while others can be made out (_D.M._,_ D. Malfoy_, his signature), before he seemed to settle on one.

_Draco_  
  
  



	19. Chapter 19

Enoch wakes to the smell of cleaning products. He frowns softly to himself, curling up under his blankets in an attempt to escape the smells. Howie grunts when he's bumped, but quickly adjusts to the movement. The brunet doesn't know why they would be cleaning; he isn't aware of any potential visitors that are supposed to be coming today. But he knows it's not a normal clean, the smells tell him it's the type of clean reserved for guests the family isn't entirely comfortable enough with to let them see the house in its normal state. Not that their house isn't normally clean—at least not to Enoch. Magic makes it easy to keep on top of the small things.

The soft sounds of music float through the air, accompanied with the quiet scuffle of feet. Enoch knows he'll be up soon. He wants to continue sleeping, but the sounds of life will draw him from the warm blankets soon enough. Attempting to keep sleeping when he knows everyone else is up always make him feel lazy, like he should be up and doing something even if he knows full well he's only going to end up migrating to the couch.

Sure enough, he's up in the next minute. He grabs the nearest shirt lying on the floor and pulls that over his head as he leaves his room. Howie stutters around his feet, before running off. There's a quiet "_Bonjour, Howie_," from Odeda. As Enoch enters, he spots his dad sitting on the couch, newspaper in hand, and instantly makes a beeline for him. Alistair doesn't even look up from his paper, though he lifts it slightly, as his son plonks himself down on the couch. Enoch spreads himself out, resting his head on his father's lap. The paper drops back down, so Enoch can just read it if he turns his head enough. He doesn't, staring up at Alistair instead.

"Have a good sleep?" Alistair asks, turning the page of his newspaper. Enoch hums an affirmative response, shuffling slightly.

"You guys woke me up though."

"Sorry, kiddo." Alister chuckles softly. He lets go of newspaper long enough to ruffle the brunet's hair. "We have a guest coming over for dinner. Your mother likes to keep things neat for work guests."

"Who is it?"

"Remus Lupin. You haven't met him." Enoch nods in agreement. The name isn't familiar to him at all.

"We invited him over for dinner before but he's been busy." Odeda adds as she enters the room, a barrage of enchanted cleaning equipment following her. They quickly set to work on the living room with a few flicks of the wand. A duster wafts over to the pair, purposefully dusting Enoch's nose on the way past. Odeda laughs as Enoch sneezes, making it nearly impossible for Alistair to read the paper. After a few more pages, barely read as the pages shake in his hands, the older man folds the paper up and puts it down. Once the brunet calms, his father's hand settles on the top of his head, fingers running absentmindedly through his curly hair.

"Your hair is getting long," notes the older man, getting a soft hum in response. A feeling of fingers grazing his head starts to lull Enoch into a state of almost-sleep. His eyes feel heavy again and he closes, feeling quite content.

Until his mother speaks up, "Enoch, I need you to grab some oranges for breakfast."

Enoch makes a big show of getting up with a huff, trudging outside like it's the most inconvenient thing in the world, the greatest injustice against him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"He's late." Enoch comments as he once again lazes across the couch, staring at his parents. He has already formed a slight, irrational grudge against their dinner guest. Not only had he unwittingly forced the brunet out of his bed earlier than he'd liked, he has also forced Enoch to dress in the nicest clothes they could find in his cupboard. The nicest clothes happen to be the only dress shirt he owns and a neat pair of pants they found in the back of his cupboard, which are now slightly too small and look as though he's preparing for a flood.

"I hope you're not going to sulk through dinner." Odeda gives him a pointed look, which just makes the brunet huff. He has no chance to respond because there's a knock at the door, causing everyone to suddenly jump into action. Odeda rushes to the door, the rest of the family close behind.

Behind the door stands a bedraggled looking man, pleasant smile on his lips and a Tupperware container in his hands. He's dressed neatly, much like the rest of the family, but still manages to carry the appearance of someone who has just been dragged through a bush. Maybe it's the scars that decorate his face or the fact he looks absolutely exhausted and underfed. He's in luck, Enoch thinks; Odeda has been cooking all day just for this.

"Remus, so glad you came." Odeda breaks the silence, smiling warmly at her work friend. She gestures for him to come in, and the man obliges with little more promptly. As the door closes behind him, he offers the container to Odeda.

"It's not much but I made some salad."

"Oh, you didn't need to. But thank you." The you get woman smiles as she takes the container. Then she glances back at her husband and son, both still silently staring at Remus. "I believe some introductions are in order. Remus, this is my husband—Alistair—and my son—Enoch. Enoch, Al, this is Remus."

Hands are shaken. When Enoch shakes Remus's hand, which he purposefully (and riskily) left his gloves off for, he gets the full reading of the older man's emotions. They come in a jolt, a feeling of exhaustion, worry underlying the current relaxed mood he seems to be in. The brunet's eyes unconsciously grow a little wider as the next sensation flows over to him. _Petrichor_. The smell of the earth, right after rain, fills Enoch's nose. It's a hint of familiarity, though one he's only ever felt with Draco.

Then the contact is broken and the smell settles in with the background.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"So, how are you finding Hogwarts?" Enoch glances up from his food—a plate of vegetables greatly outnumbering the meat—when he realises he's being spoken to. Remus is looking at him expectantly as he cuts a mouthful of his food. The brunet gives a small shrug.

"I enjoy it. The food is better here though."

Remus chuckles softly, "That is true. House-elf cooking doesn't quite compare to this." Enoch nods. "What subjects are you taking?" Enoch quickly lists off his classes, getting small nods of approval here and there from the older male.

"Wish I could have taken classes like that when I was at school," mutters Alistair in a joking manner. He gets a few chuckles before attention returns to Enoch. He's asked what seems to be the natural progression of this conversation—how he finds them. Keeping his answer brief, he says they're good. For a few moments, the conversation ceases as everyone focuses on eating their meals. Enoch thinks the subject has been finished for good, hoping he doesn't have to be the centre of attention anymore. But his hopes are crushed when Remus pauses in between mouthfuls, looking to Enoch again.

"I taught Defense Against the Dark Arts there for a year. I'd like to think I did a good job at it." Enoch smiles politely and gives a small nod. He's not quite sure where this is going, but he's hoping it's an anecdote. He'd be content to just sit and listen to something that happened before he joined. "But, if you ever find yourself stuck or having difficulties, or even need a hand studying, I would be happy to help out. Though, your mother would be just as qualified for that."

"Nonsense, Remus, being an actual teacher is a far higher qualification." Enoch feels his ears heat up at the sudden, unprovoked moment of kindness. It's only amplified by the kindness that radiates from the man; the empath can't sense any ill-intentions or insincerity coming from him. Enoch had been sulking a little, about being put out without any warning, but this makes him feel a little better. 

Odeda smiles on the other side of the table, as she watches the small smile tug at her son's lips. Just as she had expected, Remus has won him over. She had told him to not be so worried.

"Let me give you a hand." Enoch looks up from the soapy water his hands are submerged in, cleaning the dishes from the evening. Remus is standing beside him, a small smile on his lips as he flicks his wand. In an instant, the dishes begin cleaning themselves, making much quicker work of it than the brunet had been. The younger stares at them for a second, before he begins to feel the guilt start to bubble up inside of him.

"You don't need to waste your magic on this. I can clean them." This gets a small chuckle from the older male.

"I'm not wasting my magic. It's perfectly fine."

"There's so many better things you could be using them on--"

"Enoch, please trust me when I say this is not wasting my magic. And, if it is, I'm happy to use it on getting chores done faster." As the brunet realises he's not going to win this argument, he huffs softly and wipes his soapy hands on the tea towel nearby. "Let's go join your parents in the living room. I believe Odeda mentioned something about cake."

**. . .**

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Odeda asks when Remus has left, looking at the two boys sprawled on the couch once again. She gets a murmur of agreement from them, though it's more of a distracted groan than anything. But then Enoch's head pops up as he looks at her, a thought clearly rolling around in his head.

"He smelt different."

"How so?" The older woman leans against the armchair.

"Petrichor. I've only ever smelt that with one other person." The brunet shuffles so he's sitting up, head poking up over the top of the couch. "Is there anything that'd make Remus different?"

Odeda is quiet for a moment, clearly considering something. "I'd prefer you don't go spreading it around but Remus is a werewolf. It's what caused him to lose his position as the DADA teacher, the news got out. But he's a very nice man, as I'm sure you realised." Enoch nods in agreement.

"I won't say anything. I promise."

"I know."

Enoch frowns softly to himself as he considers this. The concept of having met a real life werewolf is pretty cool, but he doesn't think it answers his question. Draco has never shown any signs that he is a werewolf.

Though, really, what even are the signs?


	20. Chapter 20

There is a certain kind of dread attached to receiving mail for Draco. Usually, mail either means further orders from his family, on what he was doing wrong and developments in what he had to do, or the occasional parcel he needed. The parcels aren't so bad because he's expecting them, but when an envelope lands in front of him, he can feel that dread bubbling away in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes he considers ignoring the letters, throwing them away, destroying them somehow, but he knows he can't. That would only make things worse.

This time, when he turns the envelope around, he sees his name scrawled across in... _Biro_? The blue writing is definitely not the typically quill and ink, and the handwriting he recognises―it's a letter from Enoch, written in his hurried way of writing, somehow still smudged despite his insistence that the pens help him write better. The dread lessens lightly, like the brunet is actually there, taking a little bit of the worry away from Draco. He slips the envelope away in his pocket, refusing to answer any nosy questions about it, and goes back to eating his breakfast.

_"...I also have some information that I think you'll actually probably be interested in (maybe). Remus Lupin (he said he was a teacher at Hogwarts, but now he's not) came over for dinner the other day. He works with Mum, Mum has guests a lot. But anyway, the interesting thing is he smells like you―like petrichor! His petrichor is a bit different to yours (yours is a bit stronger, like really_ _fresh rain) but it's the closest I've ever smelt. You might not care, but I thought you'd be interested in the update..."_

The dread is back. The kind that creeps up on him, wrapping itself around him like a boa constrictor. He's glad he waited on reading this, until later in the evening while everyone is supposed to be asleep. The piece of paper is shaking between his fingers as he rereads the words over and over, as though willing them to change. He doesn't need this, doesn't want this. He can't handle this kind of information right now.

Before the overwhelming wave of emotions can completely crash down on his mask, he storms out of the bedroom, shoving the letter under his pillow. Someone in the dark, their voice groggy and tired, asks where he's going but he doesn't even acknowledge them. He barely even hears them as it is.

Draco isn't as careful as he should be, rushing to the girl's bathroom on the second floor. He's not even conscious of the fact that he's walking here, not until he's got the door closing behind his back and aware of the fact that he feels oddly safe. But the safety doesn't make him feel _better_, it's the kind of safety that seems to unhinge something―it lets his mask down, against his will, and he very nearly lets out a whimper. But not quite. He's not_ that_ bad.

Again, with little care for the fact that he should be in his dorm, his fist slams against the cubicle wall beside him. It doesn't create a loud noise―because it wasn't a hard enough hit―but it was enough to let out some of the tension filling his body. He feels stiff, muscles seizing up as he forces them not to tremble. He won't tremble.

_He knows_. A cold reminder, the thought washes down on Draco. If Enoch doesn't know yet, he'll definitely know soon. The brunet isn't as stupid as some people like to make him out to be, and connecting the dots isn't anything like Alchemy. Slowly, he slumps down onto the ground, back pressed against the door of the bathroom. He reaches into the pocket of his robes, hands meeting cold metal; pulling it out, he quickly opens the lid of the container and takes out one of the lemon lollies. He'd gotten into the habit of eating them whenever he feels particularly stressed. He's running low.

The lolly, he quickly realises, doesn't help as much as he thought it would, given he associates it so heavily with the brunet. If anything, it focuses his thoughts even more on the issue. _He knows, he knows... He'll know, he'll know_.

"Who knows?" A sudden speaker reveals that he'd been talking aloud, muttering his thoughts under his breath. Draco jumps at the voice, looking up at the owner in alarm. And then he relaxes, just a fraction: it's only Myrtle. The ghostly girl watches him curiously, head tilted in an almost comical manner as she observes him. Draco can't read her expression completely―has never been able to, not properly. It's always been difficult to tell if she is genuinely concerned or if she's simply storing the information away, to use against him in the future. But either way she seems to enjoy having company that doesn't immediately call her names and he uses that as a threat, to keep her silent.

"What do you mean?" Draco asks anyway. He hates the way his voice trembles, hates the way he feels the strong need to sniff, like it's already filling up. He won't cry.

"You said, _he knows_."

"My friend," responds the other boy as he sniffs loudly, brow furrowed rather pathetically. He looks like a wounded puppy, but the kind that's trying to hide that they're hurt, trying and failing to put on a brave face. Myrtle's head remains tilted as she floats above him, curious expression trying to get him to reveal more information. "I think he's figured out my secret, or is close to it. He'll think I'm a monster."

"Some of the first years think I'm a monster. They scream and point when they see me, then they run away." Myrtle pouts as she floats down to Draco's level. Her anecdote does nothing to make the Slytherin feel better. If anything, it only feeds his worries as he starts imagining Enoch's own reaction; it might not be to that same extent, but it's still something he'd prefer to avoid. He sniffs again, rubbing his hand underneath his nose. He doesn't feel the need to cry, but his nose certainly feels the need to run. Myrtle misinterprets this, "You can cry if you want. I won't laugh."

"I don't." The blonde mutters, brow furrowing further. There's a headache waiting just around the corner with all this tension. Draco's whole body still feels tense, aching from it.

"The boys liked to tease me until I cried. Then they'd laugh at me..." Draco rolls the lemon lolly in his mouth. It's grown smaller, almost able to be crushed underneath his teeth. But he holds onto it, trying to make it last as long as he can. It doesn't freak him out even more now, instead bringing the comfort it usually brings. It burns his mouth a little still, but he thinks he's getting used to the sourness. "Everyone loved laughing at me."

Draco grunts softly in response, only vaguely paying attention to the girl's complaints. His attention remains fixated on the lolly, trying to reduce it to nothing as his mouth tingles with its sourness. She continues to talk, encouraged by his minimal responses, whining about Merlin knows what. Myrtle seems to take great joy in finding things to whine about, almost as much as she seems to enjoy collecting and spreading gossip.

When the lolly is gone and he feels a bit calmer, tiredness slowly creeping up on him, Draco chooses to leave. He gets to his feet, giving Myrtle a small goodbye, and hurries back to the dorms. This time he takes a little more care to avoid being caught, though he doesn't pass anyone. However, someone is awake when he returns and they ask some sleepy question about where he'd been. The blond gives a cold response of "_Mind your own business_," and crawls into bed.

It takes him a while to fall asleep, thoughts still fixated on what might happen if Enoch does find out about his secret―all the good and bad alternatives.


	21. Chapter 21

"You excited yet?" Philip asks, voice rather loud as he leans up against the younger boy. Enoch gives a small nod, still lying somewhere between nervous and excited. The Gryffindor had picked up on that earlier on, before they'd even left for the stadium, and had been checking in on him periodically. Enoch assumes the fact that he's asked again means his excited face isn't that convincing. It's not that he's _not_ excited-because he is. It's more just the noise and the people are all very overwhelming; he can't quite detach his own emotions from everyone else's. Even up in their seats, slightly better and less crowded than the lower levels, it's still noisy.

As he'd promised, Philip had sent Enoch a letter during the holidays, inviting him to stay over at his place and come to a Quidditch match that evening. Not wanting to turn down the offer, especially when the older seemed so excited over letter, Enoch had accepted and arrangements were made. And now here they are, sitting up in the stadium, waiting for things to start.

Philip leans back in his seat, hand rummaging through a bag of chips. As he crunches them, he offers some to the brunet, but Enoch declines. Within a minute (at least), the bag is finished, crumpled up, and shoved in the older boy's pocket. They sit there for a little, staring out at the noisy stadium, before Philip sighs softly.

"What've you been up to?" He asks, leaning against Enoch again. His side presses gently into the younger's, sparking a sudden jolt of emotions. Mostly, it's just excitement but, underneath, rests a rather strong wave of salty nerves. Then it's gone, as Philip shifts in his seat so he's facing the other boy a bit better.

"Not much. We had Remus Lupin over for dinner, that was nice. Christmas was quiet. Then you and Gee came over." The older brunet nods once, chewing on the end of his nail. "What about you?"

"Da 'n' me had to visit the grandparents, went shopping while we were there. Had to go without Ma because she and them are still fighting."

"They're always fighting," pipes up Mr Densmore from beside them, in an almost despondent manner.

"Yeah, well, I basically lived off cakes while I was there. It was great." As if sparked by the topic of food, Philip reaches into their small travel bag and pulls out a sandwich. Arm still buried in the bag, leaning over his seat, the boy looks up at his friend, "Want one?" Enoch shakes his head again, and Philip sits up. He begins to eat the sandwich, still leaning slightly against the brunet. His shoulder and upper arm rests against Enoch's, an oddly comforting kind of pressure-warmth without the emotions. "Feeling any better?"

"Yeah, a bit better." Philip stares at him for a few seconds, eyes barely keeping still as they travel all across the younger's face, and then he nods.

"It'll probably get noisy again when the game starts. People get really into this kind of thing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"_AW, COME ON_!" Philip yells as his father groans softly, their emotions echoed throughout the stadium. Enoch stares at them in alarm, startled by the sudden noise; he's not quite sure what's happened to warrant such a reaction. He glances back at the pitch, but the game has continued on normally. Within a few seconds, Philip has settled back into his seat a little. He's still frowning at the field, knee bouncing, tense. But Enoch only gets the lightest tingle across his tongue-barely anything spicy-so he assumes the boy is alright.

He returns his attention to the players zooming around on their brooms. He still hasn't grasped the rules of Quidditch completely, so he's never quite sure what's going on. But it's still enjoyable to watch, he even finds himself getting a little into it. The waves of excitement and enjoyment from the crowd, far overpowering the annoyance, is contagious. By the end of the match, Enoch is really into it, cheering along with the rest of the crowd when he thinks their team has scored. (Sometimes he cheers for the other team too, because they're doing a good job and sometimes he can't tell the difference).  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


To leave the stadium, it's only a short walk, but it's made longer by the ambling crowd all loudly talking to one another. It's noisy, with people failing to find their inside voices, arguing or agreeing with one another, and just generally continuing their good time. As they're pushing through the crowd, there's a loud scream-a playful scream, like that which would come from a child. But it's enough to make Philip leap, suddenly grasping for Enoch as he pushes his body against him. As his hand wraps around Enoch's, skin contact is made and all Enoch feels is fear-pure fear rolling over him, nearly debilitating. He feels his heart thump painfully in his chest, legs grow weak, mouth dry. For a few seconds, he's not sure if he'll make it out alive.

"A-Are yo-ou okay?" Enoch barely manages to speak, trying to fight past the emotions he's experienced. He manages to gain control, pushing them down enough for him to focus. Philip turns his wide eyes to the brunet, confusion flashing across them. Then realisation.

"Oh, your thing-I'm sorry." He instantly withdraws his hand, shoving it sheepishly in his pocket.

"Lip, are you alright?" Mr Densmore asks, placing his hand on his son's shoulder. "It was just someone being silly, nothing to worry about."

Philip nods, "M'alright." Enoch, naturally, hasn't taken his eyes off his friend; a small, confused frown is furrowed into his brow, teetering between being curious and wanting to ask what's caused this. Philip catches his eye and a shaky embarrassed smile curls across his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Last time―last quidditch match I went to―there was a... thing. Nothing, really, but the scream reminded me. Sorry about grabbing your hand, didn't mean to hurt you or anything."

"It's okay, it didn't hurt." The smile grows a little bit more sincere, a small sparkle finally reaching the Gryffindor's eyes, and he nods. There's still the faint traces of vinegar emanating from him, but it's reduced significantly. Once Mr Densmore seems convinced everything's alright, they start moving again. The crowd has dispersed a little, with most of the bulk having already left, making their exit a little easier than if they'd left only moments before. There's, thankfully, less noise, no more screaming and, gradually, Enoch sense Philip growing calmer and calmer.

He doesn't calm completely until they're back at his place, though.

**. . .**

It's dark but Enoch can hear Philip munching softly in the bed above him. He's lying on the floor of Philip's bedroom, on some mattress they dragged out from the large cupboard in the back room, in the dark because the older boy claimed his dad would come in earlier if the light was left on. There's snacks strewn across the bedroom, which Philip grabbed before they left for the bedroom―an open packet of chips on the bed, some cookies on the desk with a bottle of fizzy drink, and a block of chocolate beside Enoch's mattress. There's some glasses of the fizzy drink somewhere, but Enoch has forgotten where he left his and at this point he's afraid to move, in case he knocks it and causes a mess.

"So what's with you and Malfoy?" Philip's voice breaks through the silence, mouth full of food, loud despite the claims that they had to be careful of his dad. But the words startle Enoch more than anything. How does Philip know they're friends? The brunet thought they had had to be careful, for the sake of Draco's reputation, but somehow Philip knows? Who else knows? Will Draco be in trouble? He doesn't realise he's been silent, incriminating himself further, until Philip pipes up again, "S'cool, y'know? Malfoy's a jerk to everyone, so it's weird, but you've got your thing. You friends or something?"

"I think so. Secret friends, though."

"Yeah, yeah, secret. You guys are real secret." There's rummaging, then crunching. "Like, it took me forever to find anything on you two. Only really had my hunches. Practically had to threaten a Slytherin to get stuff out of them... Not that I didn't enjoy it though."

"Why?"

"Slytherin was one of _those _Slytherins, like a real piece of work."

"No, why were you trying to get information on us?" There's some more rummaging, followed by some heavy crinkling. After a few seconds of quiet, only filled by the sound of a packet uncrickling itself, there's a soft thud against the wall. The crinkling gets louder, though now distant.

"'Cause I, like, figured out there was something going on, right? You had his gloves, he came to us for help, all really weird stuff. Figured if you hadn't told us already, you weren't gonna confirm what was going on. And I wanted to make sure Malfoy wasn't being Malfoy."

"Does anyone else know?" The real question Enoch is interested in. He couldn't care less if his friends know about the odd friendship, he trusts them enough. But Draco seems really hooked up on what people think and know. He doesn't want their friendship to be jeopardised by gossip.

"Nah, far as I've heard. You two are safe." Relief floods through the younger male. There's some shuffling above him. When the brunet glances up, he sees the outline of Philip's body propped up on the bed. "What's Malfoy like?"

"Nicer than everyone seems to think he is. He has his problems, of course, and I imagine everyone's opinion is probably deserved―but I think it's all a front. He can be pleasant company when he wants to be." There's a soft snort above him.

"Can't believe we're talking about the same person." A small grin flits over Enoch's lips, chuckle almost slips past. "If he ever does anything, I mean it, I will make him regret it."

"Thank you... I think."

"And hey," Philip shuffles again, reaching down so his hand hovers above Enoch, outstretched, "No more secrets, yeah? Not like this, at least, you can trust me."

Taking the hand and shaking it despite the awkward positioning, the brunet repeats, "No more secrets."


	22. Chapter 22

The first night back, at dinner, is the first time Enoch sees Draco. The blond is, naturally, sitting over at the Slytherin table, staring vacantly into space as those around him chatter and eat their meals. It's hard to properly see him over the sea of moving heads but, every glimpse Enoch gets, he's just sitting there. He looks detached from those around him, detached from everything. He looks tired, which seems to be a fairly common state for the boy (and for most students, really).

But that's the last Enoch sees of him all week. After that, he seems to disappear without any kind of trace. He doesn't appear in classes, in the hallway; even Philip doesn't hear anything about him. It's almost like he never existed.

. . .

Relief floods through the Hufflepuff when he spots a familiar blond head, hair tousled like barely any effort has been put into maintaining the usual style. It's neat, though barely. Everything about him looks minimal: his robes are full of creases, tie uneven, doesn't even have any school supplies on him. Up close, he looks gaunt, as tired as ever. But, mostly, Enoch is just happy to see him. It's been a week of complete silence. He'd started getting into the habit to stare at the door of any of their shared classes hopefully, until he wasn't able to stare any longer, waiting for the boy. He'd been starting to lose hope, giving up quicker, spending the rest of the lessons concerned. But now he's here.

Draco all but falls into his seat. Up close, Enoch can see the light scratches healing on his face and hands, the bandage poking beneath his robes.

"Hi," The blond says when he meets the brunet's gaze. The greeting feels so casual for someone who's been missing for a week. It's said like he saw him yesterday, and they're just catching up now.

"Hi," Where Draco's is casual, Enoch's is awkward, a clearly forced attempt to mirror the same nonchalant attitude. The short greeting betrays that, behind it, the brunet's mind is running a million thoughts a second, betrays all the worry that's still barely been resolved. So he tries to smile, hoping that might cover it. Surprisingly, the Slytherin boy smiles back. It isn't much, just a small curve of the lips, but it's still something. Just that tiny gesture does wonders for him, brightening the otherwise sullen face.

There isn't any opportunity for further conversation, as Professor Moro calls for quiet and begins the lecture. As though she wants to keep the boy from catching up, today is only theoretical. Enoch is forced to sit quietly, thoughts buzzing with questions he wants to ask Draco.

At the end of the class, Enoch lingers. He packs up his things slowly, gaze flicking over to Draco almost every second. The other boy has barely moved, like he has for the entire class, staring at his desk. There's a deep frown on his face, like he's trying to solve the world's most difficult problem. He's distant again, off in a world of his thoughts. Enoch isn't even sure he's noticed that class has ended and almost everyone's left.

As the brunet taps lightly on the older boy's shoulder, which seems to get his attention. Draco blinks, eyes coming into focus as he looks up. Comprehension flashes across his face. He starts to collect what little he did bring—a pen—and stands up.

"What do you have next?"

"Spare." The blond boy nods softly, knocking strands of his hair out of place.

"Want to come with me?" The offer takes Enoch by surprise, as he's usually the one initiating things like that. But, he's quick to accept, before Draco can change his mind or take it back.

Despite being the one to offer, Draco still seems on edge. The mild vinegar radiates from him as they walk through the corridor, as he constantly seems to watch every student they pass. None of the students pay him any attention, though. No one even glances at him. He's just another student, walking through the corridors, like everyone else.

Draco doesn't relax until they're inside that strange magical room that only appears after the boy's paced back and forth in the corridor—Enoch forgets its name. But even then, he's barely relaxed, he's just notable more relaxed than he was outside. The room is different this time. Instead of the large, cluttered room from the last visit, it's a smaller room that more closely resembles a living room. There's couches, a bookcase, and a fire crackling softly in a fireplace. Draco doesn't seem fazed, but it takes Enoch a second to adjust. By the time he starts moving, the blond has already made himself comfortable in one of the couches.

Draco sits, motionless, eyes closed. He looks like a very realistic statue, light from the fire flickering across his face. The only way Enoch can tell he's alive or real is the cacophony of emotions—fear, exhaustion, sadness, anger, whatever petrichor is—and the shallow rise and drop of his chest. Enoch sits carefully beside him, eyes barely moving from the older boy. After a few seconds of long silence, he forces his attention onto the room, examining every small detail in an attempt to distract himself. It doesn't work.

"I can practically sense your questions." Draco mutters, cutting through the heavy quiet. Now his eyes open, drifting over to the brunet. "But do you mind if we don't talk about it?"

"That's fine." The smallest of smiles curls around Draco's lips, a grateful smile. There's a faint taste of honey behind it. But it's only faint and leaves almost as quickly as it appeared, as Draco's focus drifts to the fire. Well, his gaze does—he doesn't look focused at all, looks more distant.

"Do you ever feel like everyone expects so much—too much—from you, and you have no way of meeting their expectations but you can't afford to not?" Draco's voice is surprisingly small and weak, a slight tremor behind it. The frown on his brow has deepened.

"Not– Not really."

"I do." When Draco looks up at Enoch again, Enoch doesn't need his powers to sense the fear resting in his eyes. The vinegar has a sudden burst, almost overpowering. Unable to help it, the brunet reaches into his pocket and retrieved the new tin of lemon candy he has. He eats one, offering them to Draco. Draco also takes one, though it rests between his fingers for a little longer, waving it around as he says, "I just don't know what to do. I'm not even sure what the right thing to do is. I don't think there's a single option where I don't lose."

"What happens if you fail?" Draco puts the candy in his mouth. It clinks against his teeth as he pushes it into the corner to speak.

"I lose everything."

"And if you succeed?"

"I lose... basically everything too."

"And there's no other option?" Draco shakes his head sadly. "I think you should do whatever is best, for you. Like, whichever you lose the least." Draco still looks sad, still feels sad, and it compels Enoch to tentatively reach out and place his hand softly on the older boy's shoulder. He had intended on patting it lightly, but instead he just rests his hand there and gives the shoulder a small, hopefully comforting squeeze.

"You're doing that thing again." The blond mutters, glancing at the younger's hand. "I thought it didn't work through clothes."

"What..?"

"The emotions thing. All I can feel is warmth—happy warmth—right on my shoulder." Enoch removes his hand in confusion, staring at it like it's some strange, alien entity. "And now it's gone."

"I didn't even realise I was doing that." Draco stares at the brunet's hand with a small frown.

"You should learn how to use that. You could use it as a defence if you needed, or something."


	23. Chapter 23

The carpeted floor of the library is uncomfortable underneath Draco but Enoch still insists here is better than any of the available desks. And there's plenty of desks available—Draco walked past all of them on his search for the brunet, hidden away in the secluded corner. The Slytherin boy wonders if Enoch chooses this spot for his benefit, hiding their meetings away from any potential passersby, so that Draco has to worry less. The sentiment is nice but, as he sits here, backside aching, he can't help but wish they just sat at a desk instead.

The blond is drawn out of his thoughts as the white ferret moves from Enoch's lap, climbing onto Draco's own before he settles down and rolls over to bare his stomach. Draco pauses for a moment, staring at the animal in surprise, before he hesitantly begins patting it. The resentment towards Moody—_well_, Barty Crouch Junior—still sits there, quietly bubbling away as he's reminded of his brief transformation.

"Why are you so grumpy?" Enoch asks, a faint grimace beginning to form on his face as he looks at Draco. Long, curly strands fall over his face as he does so, quickly pushed out of his eyesight with a sharp flick of his head. His hair is starting to get quite long. Not that it was ever particularly short. Draco doesn't really mind.

"I'm not grumpy." Draco responds quickly, maybe too quickly. This only gets a soft chuckle from the younger male, a shake of the head that sends those strands rolling across his face again. Draco's fingers itch to just push them out of the way, tame the untameable just a little. He's worse than Potter, and that's saying something. Draco had thought no one could possibly be worse than Potter's presentation, and then he met Enoch with his shaggy hair, muggle clothes.

"Did you forget I can sense your emotions? Is alchemy making you that miserable?"

A soft snort leaves Draco and he shakes his head, "I was just thinking about when I was a ferret."

"Oh, yeah, I've heard about that." Of course he has; even the oblivious transfer knows about his time as a ferret. If it's a moment of Draco's misery, of course the whole school knows. "What was that like?"

"Terrifying. One second, Potter and I are having a discussion about his chances in the tournament and he goes and insults my father; the next second, Moody has his wand out and I'm a tiny ferret." He pats the ferret absentmindedly, briefly wondering what it's like to be pat. The ferret seems to enjoy it. "He didn't even stop there—he was throwing me about like a rag. The world was spinning around and all I could hear was him and Potter laughing at me. It was like flying on an out of control broom. Honestly, it's a miracle I didn't throw up."

"Was it painful?"

"_Was it painful_?" Draco repeats incredulously. "Of course it was, he was throwing me around in the air while I was as small as this little guy. I think I even hit the ground at one point. I almost could have died again. All because of Potter." The blond shakes his head, letting out a soft sigh. "Be glad you missed that year, he was a terrible teacher."

"You've almost died before?" For a moment, Draco allows himself to revel in the astonishment dripping from Enoch's tone, the shock written across his face. It's been a while since someone's been so receptive, not immediately dismissed his recounts.

"In my third year, Hagrid decided he'd bring in a hippogriff for Magical Beasts. Stupid oaf, bringing in a dangerous creature like that. The beast charged at me, for no reason! Luckily, it only managed to scratch my arm but even that... Any closer and I would have lost my arm, it left a scar as it is. The scar is pretty cool, though."

"Can I see?" Enoch is absolutely enrapt, Draco doesn't even know why. With a little smirk, as much as he'll allow, the blond goes to unbutton his sleeve, to show it off. But then he pauses, looking at his sleeved arm, and remembers. His fingers pause around the button, pressing a little too tightly.

"Maybe some other time. The sleeve is hard to pull up." The brunet nods softly, disappointed but understanding. Sobered, Draco wraps his hand protectively around his forearm, unfortunately pulled back to reality. He clenches, then unclenches, then clenches again, before he lets his hand drop back onto the ferret. Draco Junior nudges his hand comfortingly, warm breath blowing against his skin. The Slytherin pats him softly, glad of the distraction.

"Once, I was climbing up a tree and I slipped, fell all the way to the ground and sprained my ankle. It hurt a heap and it had to heal the normal– the muggle way."

"What's the muggle way?"

"I walked around on crutches for a little bit, had to tape up the ankle. The pain didn't really go away for a while either." Draco can't help but shudder, once again grateful for the blessing of magic. A sprained ankle would likely be an easy fix for Madam Pomfrey, having to deal with it for longer than a day sounds like torture. "I could barely walk on the crutches too. I think they were a size too big or something."

Draco lets out a snicker, "Or you're just uncoordinated."

"No, it was definitely the crutches."

"I've seen the way you've tripped on air when walking to our desk, Enoch."

Somewhere, someone yells and Draco is reminded of his surroundings. The shushing of a librarian quickly follows, but it's enough for the blond. He can't _see_ any students completely, only brief glimpses of uniforms through the gaps in the bookshelves, but he knows they're there. Maybe they know he's here too.

"Can I try something?" Enoch asks as he closes his book--a sign Draco has started to recognise as a loss of concentration. Once the book is shut, no more study will be coaxed from the Hufflepuff.

"Maybe."

"Give me your hand." This bring Draco any consolation. If anything, it makes him more confused.

"I know for a fact neither of us studying Divination. Why do you want my hand?" Despite his questions, Enoch's wide, begging eyes convince Draco to hold his hand out. Without providing any explanation, the brunet turns the older boy's hand over so his palm is facing up, and then pressing his own hand against it. Their hands are almost the same size, though Draco feels some triumphant over the few extra millimetres his fingers have.

"I want to test something." Enoch explains but Draco doesn't think it's a very good explanation. He sits there expectantly, waiting for something that might clear everything up. The Hufflepuff stares intently at their hands, frown forming on his brow. The pressure on Draco's hand increases as Enoch presses down, until his hand is pushed down onto his knee. Just as quickly, Enoch's fingers slip around the blond's hand and he squeezes tightly. The contact is continued, Enoch still frowns, and Draco is no less confused.

Then, ever so slightly, warmth begins to spread through Draco's fingertips. It's barely anything, enough to be brushed off as body heat. But Enoch's hands aren't _that_ warm, enough to spread through Draco's veins. It's not body heat, it's not natural; from the look on the brunet's face, Draco can only assume he's the cause. Or his empath powers are.

"Is it doing anything?" Enoch asks, sounding surprisingly tired.

"It's a little warmer. Are you doing that?" The brunet gives a small nod, still frowning at their hands. The warmth does little more, just continues to spread up his arm. The heat has almost reached his elbow and starts to feel as though he's submerged his forearm in warm water.

Somewhere behind the bookshelves, someone laughs. It's loud, happy, and has absolutely no malicious sound to it. And yet Draco's head instantly shoots up, searching for someone that might be watching them. He suddenly becomes uncomfortably aware of the fact that, to anyone else, it'd look a lot like they're holding hands. Maybe that laughter was directed at them—someone laughing at how a Slytherin, Draco no less, is holding hands with the transfer student.

Without really meaning to, he pulls his hand away sharply, like he'd just touched a hot flame. It's only when Enoch frowns at him that he realises what's he's done. Guilt fills him almost immediately, worried he might have insulted the younger.

"Don't exhaust yourself or make yourself sick. You almost got it up my entire arm." The blond wrings his hands together before they drop to the ferret once more, desperate for something to do that might get rid of the tingles left by the brunet's touch. He assumes it must be the remnants of his powers, clinging to Draco's hand like a parasite. Though it's far more pleasant than a parasite.

"It's fine. I just wanted to see if I could do something when I'm less concerned, more in control."

"You definitely made my arm warmer." This seems to please Enoch, bringing a wide smile to his lips, and all seems to be forgiven. But, since the laughter, Draco can't quite get comfortable again. Not that he was ever physically comfortable, not while they sit on the floor, but he had felt more at ease. Now his eyes keep darting around, waiting for someone—anyone—to walk through and catch them, to make some unwanted comment.

In reality, a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff studying together should be no big deal. Plenty of Slytherins are friends with Hufflepuffs. But plenty of Slytherins aren't Draco, or Enoch, and the blond feels like that makes a significant difference. Too much for him to settle back down.


	24. Chapter 24

Catching Enoch after Potions, first slipping away from his Slytherin friends, proves to be more of a task than Draco first anticipated. His friends won't be brushed off easily, requiring some sort of explanation from him first—_it's nothing_, he claims, _just some Alchemy work_. Then, eager to get to make the most of their time off, most of the students are quickly filing out of the classroom. This first blocks Draco from the oblivious brunet, the second obstacle, but then pushes him further and further away as Enoch tries to get out as well. The blond only just manages to stop him at the door, grabbing his shoulder in an attempt to nonverbally get his attention as casually as he can. Enoch doesn't seem surprised to see him when he turns to meet his gaze, just gives him a pleasant smile. Draco can feel his fingertips warming and withdraws his hand quickly.

"Do you have time to work on our Alchemy project?" Draco asks, small frown on his face as he tried to convey to Enoch to play along. He can see the confusion pass across his face clear as day and only hopes it's not as clear for everyone else.

"Yeah, I was just going study anyway." A little white head pokes out of Enoch's hair, body wrapping around his shoulders under his robes. The ferret blinks sleepily at Draco, before adjusting his position and settling back down. The blond allows himself a small nod before beckoning for Enoch to follow.

Draco waits until they've moved away from the classroom, into another hallway, to explain, "We're not studying. I just wanted to stop the others from following me."

"Oh, good, you had me worried. I thought there was some Alchemy project I'd missed." Enoch chuckles lightly—so lightly it even manages to bring a lightness in the blond. A little bit of tension melts from his jaw, loosening his lips into the smallest smile he can manage. "Where are we going?"

"The room with the fireplace. It's more comfortable than the library floor."

"Oh right, the one you pace around." Draco gives a small nod, not wanting to discuss it further in case someone was the listen in and figure out where they're going. Because of Potter and his little army, the Room of Requirement isn't as secret as it once might have been; but, also because of Potter, Draco now knows of its existence.

"Potions was awful, wasn't it?" The blond comments as silence falls between them, feeling awkward. He absentmindedly brushes away some dust leftover from his failed attempt at a potion. This year has been a terrible year of Potions for him—something he would be ashamed of in any other circumstances. But his task is more important than grades, if he fails they won't matter at all, and he hardly cares for a fool like Slughorn's opinion of him. The old man has already made it clear enough that he no longer cares, with his father in prison. Enoch gives a small shrug, one that threatens to knock the ferret off his shoulders. "Did you see Slughorn? The way he fawned over Potter? I was watching him during the lesson, his technique is dreadful. He wasn't even doing what we were doing."

"Honestly I was barely paying attention to anyone else. I was struggling to get my own right." Draco lets out an airy chuckle once he sees Enoch's amused grin, wanting to encourage that amusement. "Mine smelt awful by the end, burnt my nose worse than anything I've ever smelt. Kinda glad class ended when it did."

"Mine smelt like... I'm not even sure. Crabbe and Goyle were doing something nearby that smelt like stew, that was all I could smell."

"Man, I could go for a stew right now. Like one of Maman's bourgignon. Maman makes the best—maybe only beat by Mamie's." Enoch goes quiet for a second as he seems to ponder this. The blond watched him as a frown furrows over his brow, conflict written across his face. "No, I think Maman's is best. She's an amazing cook, you should come for dinner some time."

For a moment, Draco allows himself to imagine that: dinner with Odeda Desrosiers, her muggle husband, Enoch, eating some kind of French stew, probably cooked the muggle way, talking about normal things. But then he remembers which side he's on, which side Enoch and his family is.

"Did you know, when I went back during the Christmas break, I couldn't even enjoy the food properly? My body physically wouldn't let me enjoy anything that had meat in it." Disappointment drips from Enoch's tone, a soft huff not far from the edge of his voice.

"You might have mentioned it once." Three times. He's mentioned it three times. Once not long after they'd returned, after Draco recovered; again after he ate some of the chicken at dinner, complained about how bad at was compared to home's in class the following day; and now, reminiscing on food he can't eat.

"I really hope dinner is good tonight. I'm already starving." Enoch rubs his stomach with a soft sigh, eyes closed for a second as he frowns. In this time, Draco looks forward to spot a familiar mess of brown hair, glasses, annoying face. Of all the people to pass, Potter is incredibly low on his list; he hardly has the annoyance ready to be bothered dealing with him. But as Enoch continues to ramble about food, clearly as starving as he claims, it becomes clear to Draco that neither brunet is paying enough attention to their surroundings. A collision is imminent and the blond can only assume Potter is an explosion of emotions he doesn't want Enoch dealing with either, not while he's in a good mood.

So, as subtly as he can, he switches places with Enoch. As Potter walks past, just because he can, because someone has to, he lets his shoulder crash into the Gryffindor's. Potter looks up, apologetic expression instantly morphing into a scowl, as Draco spits with as much venom as he can manage, "Watch it, Potter."

He smirks as Potter fumbles, only manages a, "Malfoy," before Draco turns his attention back to Enoch. He barely affords the Gryffindor a second glance until they're at the end of the corridor, when he confirms he isn't snooping. Potter is gone, thank Merlin.

"I get the feeling you don't like him much." Enoch comments as they keep walking, so innocent and unknowing.

"I can't stand him."

"Why?"

"I offered my friendship back in first year and he was a git back. It just worsened from there." The younger nods softly, surprisingly understanding. At this point, Draco feels like he shouldn't be surprised, but it still gets him every single time.

The silence that follows them isn't quite as uncomfortable and the blond lets it hang between them until they reach the Room of Requirement. Enoch watches as he paces, as always, until the door forms in the wall. Inside is the same room that vaguely resembles one of the sitting rooms back at home, fire still crackling warmly. Draco settles down in the couch closest to the fire, allowing himself a brief moment to relax as Enoch sits beside him.

The silence is still there, now broken only by the quiet crackle of the fire. Resting his head against the back of the couch, Draco stares at a painting resting above the fireplace—a small portrait of a dog panting happily in a grassy field, ball nearby. The dog pounces on the ball, picking it up before running off, leaving only the field.

"Do you hide your emotions from me?"

"Not really. Not intentionally. Why?" Draco turns his head so he's looking at Enoch, who just so happens to be looking at him as well, position mirrored. His eyes are green, Draco realises. Just like Potter's, only far less infuriating to look at. Almost immediately, they crinkle into a smile, creases decorating the corners, when the eye contact is made.

"You just feel... less intense sometimes. Not all the time, sometimes it's pretty bad. But, right now, I can even taste honey over the brine." Enoch pauses to pull a glove off his hand, resting it carefully on his knee, before he holds it out to Draco. Without really thinking, Draco takes the hand and waits expectantly. A few seconds pass and nothing happens; the natural warmth of their hands fill his palms, he feels Enoch's fingers tighten around his knuckles, and that is all. "See, it's bearable. I don't even feel the need to take away anything. I'd _like_ to, but I don't need to."

"Guess you just got a good day." Draco responds, still watching the brunet. Slowly, he turns his head to face the painting again. The dog hasn't returned, grass swaying idly in a painted breeze. The image is peaceful and, oddly enough, the blond feels at ease. Then, slowly, warmth fills Draco's insides. Starting in his stomach, it blossoms up his chest, filling his limbs, his throat. He glances back at Enoch, who's still staring at him. "Did you do that?"

"What?" Enoch blinks slowly as though he hadn't been focusing.

"The warmth." Draco gestures at their hands, still clasped together. The warmth floods from his body suddenly, far faster than it arrived, and he's left feeling cold despite the fire in front of them.

"Yeah, that was, uh... I was practicing." As Enoch pulls his hand away, putting his glove back on, the air hits Draco's palm and it too feels cold. Slowly, he closes his hand into a fist. "I think I'm getting better. Philip let me try on him a few times."

"You should see if you can do it with some negative emotions. You can test that on me, if you want."

Enoch's brow furrows, "Why would I want to do that."

"It's always useful to have some kind of defense." _Especially with the war that seems to be coming_, he thinks but doesn't say. Instead, he just gives a casual shrug and hopes Enoch doesn't catch any change in emotions. He doesn't want to think about it, nor does he want to talk about it. He just wants to watch the grass that looks as green as Enoch's eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Philip is re-reading _Quidditch Through The Ages—_his well-loved copy, which has been read to death already—in the Gryffindor common room when someone decides they want to interrupt his quiet time. The clearing of the throat, nearer than he expected, startles the brunet and he almost drops the book on his face. Then he glances over the top of his book, meeting a familiar pair of green eyes behind a pair of glasses, and he really drops the book on his face.

_Merlin, it's Harry!_ As he rubs his tender nose, Philip scrambles up into a better seated position, no longer lounged over the arms.

_Act cool, calm, Philip._

"H-Hi, Harry." Philip manages a nervous greeting as he attempts to affect the most casual smile he can manage. None of it feels particular casual and he instantly berates himself internally for still managing to feel so uncomfortable around his fellow Gryffindor.

"Hey. You're friends with the transfer, right?"

"Enoch?" Harry nods quickly, intently. "Yeah, we're close."

"Do you know why he'd be hanging around Malfoy?" Instantly, worry fills Philip. With his promise of keeping their friendship a secret, Philip also made it his business to squash any other rumours that might arise, ensuring that absolutely no one thought Enoch and Draco are anything more than Alchemy partners. But if Harry is asking... Fighting a gossip battle against Harry sounds near impossible to win. His word is gospel amongst the right people.

"To study Alchemy, probably. They're partners, have projects and all that. Don't think either of them are particularly happy about it." Harry doesn't seem particularly convinced, eyes searching Philip's face for something. But the other boy holds his ground, maintaining an straight but pleasant face that he hopes isn't suspicious. Then, the suspicion leaves Harry's face, replaced with a polite smile.

"Thanks. Good book, by the way."

"Yeah, it is." Philip chuckles uncomfortably, hands tightening around the book in his hand. The tension filling his body only leaves once the brunet does, disappearing into the dorms. Philip stares at the empty space before he slowly settles back down, unable to really focus on his book anymore. He makes an internal note to talk to Enoch about watching Harry, and then to tell Gee about that successful interaction with Harry.


	25. Chapter 25

"Do you have any friends?" Enoch asks as he and Draco are wandering through the corridors. He immediately realises what he's asked, regretting the lack of tact. But the blond just lets out a small chuckle, not emanating any insulted emotions.

"I do. You've met Crabbe and Goyle, complete morons but they're loyal. I wouldn't trust them with anything too important or complicated though." Enoch thinks back to those two cronies with displeasure, trying to hide anything from showing on his face. If Draco is offended by any of Enoch's expressions, he doesn't show it. "Then there's Theo, Pansy and Blaise. Much smarter, I'd trust them more. They're aware of our friendship, by the way."

"I thought..."

"It's a secret, always has been, but I know they'd keep that secret. Besides, I know your friends would know by now too. Densmore would have figured it out no matter how well you kept it from him." Once again, Enoch senses no negative emotions; well, none other than the stress that always underlies all of Draco's emotions. The blond even looks amused as he glances at Enoch. "Densmore may be a Gryffindor but I will give him one thing, he's good at getting information."

"He figured it out first. Asked me when I was staying at his place."

"I trust him. I mean, I don't _really_, but I trust that he's your friend and a Gryffindor."

The pair settle into a comfortable silence, just the sound of their footsteps and surrounding students creating noise. Enoch finds himself looking at the blond as they walk; he tries to watch his feet, maybe the corridor ahead, but his gaze keeps travelling back to Draco. The Slytherin looks tired, gaunt with dark shadows standing stark against ghostly white skin. He almost looks like a ghost, void of colour. But, Enoch can't help but look at him with affection. There's a small smile resting at the edge of his lips, a lightness to his usually empty grey eyes. Enoch only feels warmth from him when he looks at him—not warmth from Draco, just warmth inside himself.

But then it all drops as Draco brushes something off his shoulder. A cold scowl spreads across his expression, only softening when he makes eye contact with Enoch.

"Don't look but we have someone following us."

"Who?"

"Potter." With a small nod of his head, Draco turns them down another path. It's not the way they're supposed to be going, but Enoch doesn't question it as he follows close beside him. Their pace has already quickened from a comfortable stroll to with a purpose. Draco makes another turn, guiding Enoch with the slight touch to his arm.

"What are we doing?" Enoch asks quietly after a few more turns. He might not be completely comfortable with the school's layout, but he's pretty sure they're just walking around in circles. Draco grins, wicked intent alight in his eyes.

"If Potter is so obsessed he's resorted to stalking me, I'll make sure his time isn't wasted." Enoch gets a spark of lemon candy and sugar as Draco taps his shoulder, directing him to the left. A quick glance over his shoulder, pretending to glance at the blond again, confirms that there is indeed someone doing his best to act casual while following their path. "Potter is always so paranoid. Once, he snuck across the room just so he could listen to a discussion I was having with Crabbe and Goyle. I say once, but he's done that on more than one occasion."

"Why?"

"Well, if I'm talking to friends, the only thing I could possibly be doing is plotting. Plotting against him, particularly." The bitterness in Draco's lemon sparks as he mutters this, almost growing unpleasant. But then he snorts, bring back the sugar. "I suppose I should take it as an honour, having the perfect Chosen One being so obsessed with me."

"You haven't really helped it though, have you?" Enoch comments as they take a sharp turn down a corridor he didn't even realised existed. Though corridor might be too generous; it looks more like a tunnel, dark and narrow, barely enough space for them to walk shoulder to shoulder. "Everyone talks like you're not the nicest. And you weren't exactly nice when we met."

"You stole my emotions. I was shocked." Draco points out, before he sighs softly. "Though you do have a point. But, I did originally want to be friends with Potter. I tried, he chose the _Weasel_ over me. Besides, everyone thinks I'm evil, I don't see the point in soften my opinions in the hopes that it might change their mind."

"I don't think you're evil." As they break out through the other side of the tunnel, Enoch has enough time to glimpse the smile resting against Draco's lips. It twists slightly into some sadder, brine mingling in with the honey.

"You're either too kind or stupid, Enoch, and I still haven't figured out which." Glancing over his shoulder again, Draco lets out a small huff. "He's still following. I thought we might have lost him." Draco pauses for a second, coming to a sudden halt that almost trips Enoch up. When he speaks, it's in a hushed voice, "I'm about to look behind and then we're going to run like we don't want Potter to catch us."

As he said, the blond glances over his shoulder at the Gryffindor following them. Almost immediately, he starts to run away. Barely prepared, Enoch almost loses him in his hesitation. But Draco grabs his hand, pulling him along, before the contact is lost to focus on outrunning the Gryffindor tailing them. He can hear the footsteps behind them grow louder as he assumes Harry tries to keep up with them. As they run, he hears a small chuckle from beside him, one that coaxes a grin to spread across his own lips. He feels bad for teasing Harry like this, but he is glad of the entertainment it seems to bring the older male.

They run the rest of the way to the library, always ensuring that Harry doesn't fall too far behind. At the door, which he holds open for Enoch, Draco pauses to send a shoelace-tying hex and a smirk the Gryffindor's way. Harry goes sprawling but still manages to send a glare the blond's way. Then he follows Enoch inside, laughter not far from his lips. Actual laughter. Not a snort, not a chuckle; far too boisterous for the library, Draco is actually laughing. The sound is happy, coated in honey, and brightens his entire face. Enoch finds it infectious, unable to help laughing with him. They barely manage to suppress it when the librarian shushes them, giving them a stern look, and they hurry to their usual secluded spot at the back of the library.

"He's so easy to goad, sometimes too easy. But that was fun." Draco admits as they settle down on the ground, books spread out in front of them. The smile still rests on his lips and it's the most carefree Enoch has seen him. A few strands of his hair, usually impeccably neat, have fallen across his forehead, but these are quickly brushed back into place with his fingers. Honeyed lemon coats Enoch's tongue, softening the brine and vinegar, sweetening the petrichor. There's a warmth in Enoch's chest; it's the same type of warmth he's felt while watching Leonardo DiCaprio perform, though stronger somehow, more real.

_The same type of warmth as Leonardo DiCaprio's..._

Oh God.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"You won't believe who decided to accuse me of plotting." Draco says by way of greeting as he sits down beside Enoch in class, notably late though no one mentions it. Enoch glances up at him, feels something roll in his stomach, feels his brow furrow unwillingly. "Potter, of course."

"Why?" Enoch asks, watching as the blond settles down in his seat.

"When does he ever need a reason?" Draco mutters, though a smirk plays at his lips. Never has a smirk made butterflies wreck havoc in his chest like this one does. It shouldn't, but it does. "I was just trying to get some notes I'd missed."

"You never take notes."

"I have more important things to think about." Enoch notes the way the vinegar rolls up his throat at this comment and decides not to push it. He just nods his head slowly, dropping his gaze to the desk. As Moro starts talking, he clicks his pen open; in the corner of his eye, he sees Draco grimace. Even after all this time, the pen seems to annoy him. The brunet wonders what else about him annoys the Slytherin. Never has that mattered more to him either.

Only ever having acquaintances his own age, Enoch hasn't had much opportunity to develop any feelings beyond friendship. The only person he's ever attached himself is one that doesn't know he exists, one he knew would never reciprocate, and therefore never had to worry about the feelings. He isn't even sure on these and he's worrying.

Who is he kidding? He's sure. He was sure the second he identified the warmth. If there's one thing Enoch knows, it's emotions. He _likes_ Draco. Cold Draco with his sour lemon and petrichor. Warm Draco with his honeyed lemon. Every Draco... Well, maybe not muggle-hating, venom-spitting Draco. But he likes Draco. In a more than friendly way. And he doesn't quite know what to do about that.

"I'm not sure if you're doing it on purpose or not," Draco whispers, breaking through his thoughts, "But you're making me warm again."

"I... But I'm not even touching you."

"I know, but it's not me. So unless someone has cast some kind of warming spell..." Enoch glances at his glove-clad hands as though they might be the culprit, clenching and unclenching them. Surely not. "It's probably just a warming spell."

"Probably. I don't even know how to control emotions with contact." Draco gives him a small smile before he goes back to watching the teacher. His expression might be blank—the empty scowl that seems to be his natural resting face—but Enoch can feel the brine and vinegar rolling around inside of him. He wonders if he'd taste the same, filled with the worry and angst of newly discovered feelings.

This is a problem to write home about, that's for sure.


	26. Chapter 26

_Chère Maman et Papa,_

_It has been fairly unexciting lately at school, so I don't have a lot to say. Classes have been going fine and I think I'm even improving in Alchemy. Hopefully I'll be good enough to continue next year. Failing is no longer a worry, at least. Draco has been helping me outside of class and explaining things a little better, so I'm getting the hang of it._

_Elijah wanted me to thank you for the normal newspaper. He's read it ten times already, I swear. I've never seen anyone so excited to read a paper and look at photos that don't move. I think whenever you're finished with them, you might have to keep sending them to him. Though I'm not sure if I want to feed his obsession..._

_I'm actually writing to you because I've come across another dilemma. It's similar to the last dilemma but also less of a dilemma. I'm not sure. I think that's the dilemma - I'm confused. You see, I've been spending a lot of time with Draco, both to study but also just to hang out. He's gotten a lot friendlier. Sometimes he'll snap about things, usually at other people, and he really doesn't like anything that reminds him of muggles, but he'll sit in the library without acting like it's torture. He listens to me more these days, isn't judging me constantly. And Howie, my ferret, likes him a lot. That's not my dilemma though. I like that, I'd never have a problem with that._   
  
  
  
  
  


"Whatcha writing?" Enoch jumps suddenly as the voice of his Gryffindor friend startles him out of his thoughts. He looks up, eyes wide, at Philip and instinctively clutches the letter to his chest. Then he remembers it's written entirely in French, a language Philip doesn't know, and settles just slightly. But the gesture is enough to alight the curiosity in the brunet's eyes as he sits at the desk beside Enoch.

"Just a letter home. Keeping Maman and Papa up to date. Nothing exciting." He can feel the amusement bubbling up inside of Philip and he peers at him suspiciously, wondering what could be so amusing. The Gryffindor's lips are curled into a grin as he shakes his head.

"You're a terrible liar. You've never jumped like that before while writing home." Enoch feels his eyes grow wider against his will, caught. A joking pout breaks the grin, struggling against Philip's need to smile. "I thought we promised no secrets."

"It's really nothing, it's just... I have a problem. I go to Maman and Papa for problems."

"Try me."

Enoch's brow furrows, "What?"

"Try coming to me for your dilemma. If my advice is bollocks, ignore it." As he considers this, not an entirely horrible suggestion if it weren't for the subject matter, the Hufflepuff can't help but shuffle uncomfortably. Opening up to people that aren't his parents is something he's never done before. Well, not before this year; he's had to open up about his empathy, about his secret friendship with Draco. But he's still not comfortable with it. "Here, what if we trade secrets? I'll tell ya my most embarrassing story, then yours'll be nothing in comparison."

"Do you really want to tell me that?" Philip lets out a small snort.

"I'm surprised Gee hasn't already told ya."

"Okay... If it's embarrassing enough, I'll trade." Maybe getting the opinion of someone in school, a friend, might do him some good. Besides, he's curious now.

"So, it was back in first year but it still haunts me. It was dinner and I was sitting in the Gryffindor table, minding my own business. Then, the boy sitting next to me asks me to pass the mashed potato." Despite this apparently being his most embarrassing story, Philip seems quite eager to tell it; amusement laces his tone, wide grin on his lips. "I'm like, sure, no problem and grab the bowl. Except, what I realised too late was that it was Harry Potter asking for the potato. One look at his face and I was absolutely starstruck, shocked. Threw a whole bowl of mashed potato all over him, covered him."

Enoch lets out a small, sympathetic squeak of laughter.

"Y'know, for someone who'd just had potato thrown on him, he was surprisingly calm and nice about it. Some older kid cleaned it up. But I was horrified. I haven't sat at the Gryffindor table since, except for like official things when I have to. I can't look at Harry Potter without being reminded of that."

"That's horrible." Enoch mutters, though a laugh is bubbling behind his words. A hand covers his mouth, desperately trying to hide his smile. But Philip seems fine, chuckling along.

"It was. Gee won't let me forget it either." The amusement hangs in the air for a few seconds, a lightness that eases any tension. Then Philip raps his knuckles rhythmically against the desk, "So, whaddya think? Are we even?"

Enoch nods slowly, hesitantly, "I think we're even." The older male shuffles a little closer, almost conspiratorially so, and watches him intently. "So, you know how I'm friends with..." Enoch just raises his eyebrows, hoping Philip can fill in the name. He does, nodding his head quickly. "I think there might be more to it."

"Like, he might be using you for something?"

Enoch quickly shakes his heads, "No, nothing bad! I mean, I hope not. It's... I think, uhh, my feelings are more than friendly."

"For him?" The brunet's voice raises in disbelief as his eyes grow wide, eyebrows raise. As the younger nods his head, Philip's mouth rests ajar in a surprised expression. "But... it's him. How?"

"I just... I don't know. Yesterday, we were being followed by Potter– Harry–"

"Oh, yeah, he was asking about you. Was going to say."

"Yeah, well, he followed us and Draco thought it would be a good idea to run away from him. And he was just so happy and I just– I don't know, I realised he makes me feel warm."

"But he has a reputation for a reason. Are you sure... him?"

"I'm sure. He's not so bad once you crack through the shell. I think a lot of it is just a front. At least, he's gotten nicer to me. His muggle issues are still... well, an issue." The brunet's brow furrows into a confused frown, soft sigh escaping his lips. "I don't know how to work out any of this though. The only experience with this kind of thing I have is my long time crush on Leonardo DiCaprio."

Philip stares at him blankly, "Who's that?"

"He's a muggle actor. Celebrity crush."

"That is a dilemma..."

"What's a dilemma?" Someone asks behind Enoch, causing the brunet to jump. He tastes oranges and smells expensive cologne so he immediately knows it's Gee and Elijah. This is only confirmed when the pair move into his line of vision. Philip gives him a questioning look, asking for permission. Feeling it's only fair they know too, he gives a small nod. The Gryffindor gestures for them to get closer.

"Enoch here has a crush on the ferret." He informs them in a hushed voice, careful to avoid others overhearing.

"On Howie?" Elijah asks with a frown, quickly getting a laugh from Philip. He quickly shakes his head before Elijah gets too many ideas.

"The other one. Slytherin." Enoch is soon faced with another two disbelieving faces staring at him. He shifts uncomfortably under their gaze, feeling judged even though he can't sense anything like that from them.

"But... it's him!" Elijah comments a little too loudly for Enoch's own comfort. He immediately hushes, adding, "What could you possibly like about him?"

"He's nice, I swear! It's just not immediately obvious..."

"I think it's cute." Gee smiles warmly at Enoch, bringing a wash of fresh oranges. "I absolutely don't trust him further than I can throw him but... I trust you and your judgement." As she talks, Gee grabs a chair and pulls it around for Elijah to sit on. With none free, she forces Philip to move over and share. They look oddly uncomfortably comfortable. "But what about the crush is the dilemma?"

"He also loves Leonardo DiCaprio." Philip's comment is met with confused chuckles, a small shake of the head from Enoch.

"I don't have any experience with this kind of thing, except a celebrity crush on him."

"Once, I had a crush on one of the Ravenclaw girls. I did absolutely nothing about it." Elijah pipes up, surprisingly happy for what he's saying. "But I regretted that for months after so I don't recommend it."

"But also don't do anything that might embarrass yourself in front of him, or you won't be able to even look him in the eye let alone act on your feelings." Philip continues, getting eager nods from Elijah. "You have to act cool."

"Lip, only you have to _act_ cool. Enoch's already cool." Gee laughs, shoving her Gryffindor friend. "Honestly, Enoch, each person and situation is different. With him, I'd probably take the more careful route. Make sure you're certain and it's not something he can use against you. And if he does, make sure you let us know."

"We're gonna have to have a word with him if anything happens, aren't we?" Philip asks, getting nods from the other two. Enoch feels safe amongst them, smiling softly, but also no less confused. His parents are still going to have to receive a letter—maybe they'll have better advice, something he can actually _do_. Though he does appreciate his friends' attempts.   
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  


Draco should be plotting. He should be plotting, planning, scheming—everything Potter always rightly accuses him of. He should be finding a way to kill Dumbledore, one that will actually succeed. Everyone—even Crabbe and Goyle—are getting sick of waiting. The year is ticking on. All he hears is how it's taking too long. Any longer, he might really be killed for it.

But he's unable to focus. No matter how hard he tries, sitting with his friends as he pretends to study, he can't focus on finding a solution. His mind is elsewhere, on more trivial matters.

"Do you think he knows?" Draco asks, unable to stand sitting in silence much longer. His own brain has failed him, time to consult the other much more reliable Slytherin ones. But all he gets is a frown from Theodore Nott, looking up from his parchment to really make sure his confusion is clear.

"Does who know what?"

"Do you think Enoch knows about..." Rather than verbalise it, not wanting to risk anyone over hearing, Draco just places his hand over his left forearm. Theodore's gaze drops down to follow the movement, a flash of comprehension behind his eyes, and he gives a careless shrug.

"Probably not. Not unless you've said something." Theodore twirls his quill between his fingers as he gazes down at his parchment, lips pursed thoughtfully. He quickly writes a few more lines on his essay under Draco's distracted eye. Draco can't remember the last time he took an essay seriously. _Ah_, actually, the last essay he took seriously was Enoch's; they'd spent far too long making sure the Alchemy essay was finished, and that the Hufflepuff understood what he was writing. But his own? Draco doesn't think he's written one properly since last year.

"But what about Lupin?"

"What could he possibly connect between you two? Oh, you both have a scar on your cheek. I have a scar on my hand, I'm sure Lupin was covered head to toe in scars. Doesn't make me a... well, you know." Draco realises now that keeping his friends in the dark about Enoch's empathy abilities does make conversations like this difficult; he can't exactly point out that they both share the same petrichor scent, something apparently uncommon for Enoch. So he just nods slowly in resignation, hardly comforted by this.

"Do you think it's fair, if he doesn't know?"

"What does it matter if it's fair or not?" Draco pauses, thinking. Theodore pauses too, glancing up at the blond.

"I don't know."

"You know, the last time you were concerned about things that didn't matter like this was when you were trying to ask Pansy to the Ball." There's a small, smothered grin resting against Theodore's lips as though he doesn't want to let Draco know he's enjoying this. To hide it, he shakes his head and starts writing again.

"This is different though."

"How?"

"Well, I'm not exactly asking Enoch out to any Ball, am I?" Now the smothered smirk bursts out as a snigger and the brunet shakes his head.

"No, you're talking about something far more serious." Writing one final line, presumably his conclusion, Theodore sits back in his chair with a soft groan. Stretching, he watches Draco with a curious expression on his face. Draco has seen this expression before; the other Slytherin is right, it was back when he was worrying about the Ball. "Tell him if you feel you need to. I doubt he'll tell anyone—he is a Hufflepuff."

"I think I should. It's only fair." Draco nods to himself, more trying to convince himself than anything. "Thanks."

"I'll have an essay done for you when you get back. Just let me rest my eyes for a bit."

"Get back?"

"Get back from telling him, obviously. I can't concentrate with you sitting there, being all antsy." Draco doesn't even realise he's almost out of his chair until he really is sitting on the edge of it, legs tensed, ready to jump up the second he's able. "Tell me how it goes when you get back."

"Thanks." Theodore gives him a tired smile, still sprinkled with amusement, and shakes his head again. With that done, Draco gets up to begin his search for Enoch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Draco finds Jones before he finds Enoch. The Hufflepuff girl is wandering down the hall, gives him an odd smile when he approaches her. He's never given her any reason to smile at him, so the gesture immediately takes him aback. For a second, he forgets what he was trying to do, too confused. Her smile only grows wider at this, backed with a small chuckle.

"Enoch's just gone back to the dorms to drop off Howie. He'll be headed towards the library on the way back." She informs him before he even has a chance to say anything. His mouth hasn't even opened. "He won't be long, so I'd probably hurry if you want to catch him."

"Thanks." Thanking her feels wrong; not thanking her also feels wrong. Draco doesn't give too much thought to it as he nods his head at her, running off to try and intersect Enoch somewhere. Nerves bubble away in his stomach and he knows he has to do something soon or he'll chicken out.

Enoch, understandably, seems surprised to see him when the brunet reaches the library. After not finding him anywhere along the way, Draco had decided to wait at the library doors instead, glowering at any students that decided to look at him funny. He feels that glare melt from his face the second he notices Enoch, easing the tension in his forehead. But the nerves grow stronger as well, roaring in the pit of his stomach. As a result, once again, he just nods his head and beckons. Thank Merlin Enoch gets the message, following closely on the way to the Room of Requirement.

It's only once they're safe within the walls of the magic room does Draco feel remotely comfortable. The fire crackles quietly, room familiar and warm. And then he looks at Enoch, remembers what he came to do, and all that comfort leaves.

"We're friends, aren't we?" He asks as a way of starting the conversation, of finally saying something to the undoubtedly confused brunet. Enoch just nods, continuing to follow Draco to the couch. "Close friends, even. Closer than I ever anticipated, at least."

"I think so." Enoch responds quietly, matching the Slytherin boy's tone.

"And you always try and deny whenever I say I'm... not good."

"Because you are good. I can feel it."

"Well, I think you need to know something. It might change that opinion of yours." Draco feels his mouth go dry, so dry talking feels impossible. For a moment, his voice catches in his throat. His heart beats painfully in his chest._ Is he really going to do this?_ But then he looks at Enoch, feels the warmth the brunet radiates even with his gloves. _It's only right. He deserves to know_. "Firstly, I need you to know this is a secret. Not even Densmore can know. No one. If anyone were to find out..."

"I won't tell a soul."

"I trust you. Thank you." Wiping his palms nervously down his hands, Draco takes the leap. Time to say goodbye to his friendship. "You see... I really am a monster. Honestly. The type we learnt about in Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"I'm not following." With a heavy sigh, Draco unbuttons his left sleeve. He rolls it up slowly with trembling fingers, hesitance drenching every tiny action. As the sleeve goes higher, the scars that mar his skin are revealed: deep teeth marks, clawed scratches, all an angry red against his porcelain skin. He feels his eyes grow hot staring at them, unsure whether it was fear or disgust causing that. Despite his hatred of them, he can't bear to look away—to look up at Enoch, at the horror that could already paint his face. His imagination is torment enough.

But instead, as he fixates on his bare arm, a gloved hand tentatively reaches out. Fingers ghost across some of the deeper lines. At this, Draco risks a glance upwards.

There isn't any horror on Enoch's face, nor is there any disgust. There's no fear, hatred, or anger. It's not patronising pity that's etched across his face, but it does look like sympathy. His fingers no longer trace the scars as his hand wraps around the blond's thin wrist, thumb grazing the bottom of his palm. Green eyes meet grey.

"You're not a monster." Enoch assures him earnestly. His words do something strange to the nerves rolling around in Draco's stomach but the blond can't bring himself to accept them.

"But I am. I'm a werewolf." Something clicks in Enoch's mind and his eyes grow wide.

"Petrichor!" He gasps under his breath. Then as his realisation passes, his expression grows somber. "I don't think being a werewolf automatically makes you a monster. Have you ever hurt someone, intentionally, using your being a werewolf?"

"No." _He doesn't need to be a werewolf to do that._

"And you've never turned anyone, against their will?"

"No." Enoch gives Draco a smile far too warm for the situation. The blond doesn't think he deserves it.

"Then you're going to have to try harder to convince me you're a monster." If Draco was much of a crier, he thinks he'd probably burst into tears right now. There's certainly something bursting in his chest, flooding his body with a strange warmth that he doesn't think belongs to Enoch. There's something happening, at an unconscious level, that's making the brunet's hand holding his wrist mean so much more. "While you've got your sleeve up, can I see the scar the hippogriff gave you?"

Draco lets out a small laugh, tension leaving his body. While reluctant to give Enoch any reason to let go, he nods softly and rolls his arm over so he can look at the back where Buckbeak's clawed scars still remain. Once again, Enoch traces them with his finger, moving closer. He smells like some unidentifiable citrus, something Draco has never noticed before. He suddenly wonders why; it feels like something that should have been noticed earlier. Instinctively, he breathes in a little deeper. He really doesn't know what it is, but he likes it.

"You were right, it did leave a cool scar." Enoch gives him a grin and Draco can't help but smile back. Relief has left him feeling giddy. His smile stays on his lips longer than he'd intended.

The ghost of it is still resting against his lips and in his aching cheeks when he returns to Theodore, still resting his eyes. However, the brunet does stop to pay attention to Draco's recount, that knowing grin not far from his lips. As he talks, the blond can't help but wonder what his friend keeps laughing at, what he knows that the other doesn't. It's infuriating, really.


	27. Chapter 27

Over the year, Enoch has developed a dislike for the DADA classroom. He doesn't hate the class, exactly, but the setting itself sets Enoch on edge every time he enters it. Maybe that's the intention, with the dark atmosphere and gruesome paintings, but it's an intention Enoch can't really appreciate. It makes him miss his old DADA classes, in the kitchen (sometimes the garden if the weather was nice), with his mother walking him through them. She had been far more patient than Snape, far kinder.

But, the man did respect his art. _That_ Enoch can appreciate. And, as far as teachers go, his emotions aren't unpleasant; they're dull, as if closed off from him, but he can still sense them. The dark chocolate that rests underneath, the brine and vinegar that comes in small waves, the honey that coats it all but never manages to reach his face. Something akin to the storm he felt in Harry rolls around in the air, the scent of rain coming. But not like Draco's petrichor—this is more of a threat, less pleasant. So, even when the dark man scolds them for not performing as well as he'd like, Enoch can taste the stress behind his words and can't quite bring himself to be as mad as some of the other students are.

"Today, we will be practicing your nonverbal spells. Some of you," Snape sends a purposeful glance to Harry Potter, "Are nowhere near sufficient enough in your spellcasting. Thereforea, this lesson, you will all have an opportunity to duel one another. You may use anything you have learnt in this subject, so long as no spells are spoken. Those that win will move on to duel the other winners; those that lose or utter a spell will have to watch and, hopefully, learn something from those more skilled."

There are some quiet groans from the students around Enoch, not quiet enough to escape Snape's cold stare. Enoch doesn't mind so much; even a year in, learning proper magic in a classroom hasn't quite lost its excitement. Of course, he did plenty of practicals back at home, but it's not quite the same when your partner is a witch with far more skill and experience up her belt. Beating his mother has always been a near impossible struggle, one he's only managed to succeed in once. It's a little easier here, with students around his own skill bracket.

Enoch can't quite tell Snape's method in choosing which students duel who, and in what order. Harry Potter does get chosen early on, singled out because of his decision to whisper to his friends and Snape's very clear dislike towards him. That duel ends within seconds, as a word slips past the Chosen One's lips, deflecting the attack sent towards him.

"Potter, I do believe the point of nonverbal spells is that they are not _spoken_." The DADA teacher scolds, voice dripping with disparaging venom. The two students are made to sit back down, but there's something stiff in Harry's movements as he does so, a glower on his expression. As Snape chooses his next pairing, the brunet continues to glare at him. Even across the room, Enoch can taste the hint of chilli radiating from him. That hint is enough for him—too much, really—and he moves his focus away.

Enoch's turn is a little after, partnered up with a Gryffindor he doesn't know. Hesitating, not quite wanting to make the first move, he allows the boy to make the first attack. He can sense the sudden attempt, the smell of determination and anxiety. Reflexively, he casts a shield charm; with some careful aiming, the shield charm sends the spell back to the Gryffindor and he stumbles slightly. This gives Enoch the opportunity to take the offensive, stunning the boy. The Gryffindor should have had time to block it--at least, had he been Odeda--but he doesn't and promptly collapses onto the floor. Hardly expecting to be successful, guilt fills Enoch. The brunet hopes he didn't bruise himself.

"Very good, Desrosiers." Snape comments, voice monotone but his emotions betraying the pleased reaction underneath. No matter how dull they might be, Enoch is glad for the unspoken, unintentional praise. The Gryffindor is woken, confused and disorientated, and sent back to his seat with some brief feedback on remember defense is just as important as offense. Enoch is certain he goes back to his seat far happier, even if he still feels a little bad for his partner.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Draco thinks Snape is saving him for last. Maybe he's hoping the blond might somehow, miraculously, increase his skill before he's made to duel. With the skill some of these students—mostly Gryffindors—have shown, he's sure he'll still be better than them even while slacking. Watching them fail, bored out of his mind, doesn't do much to help him.

Enoch's was interesting, however. Not just because he was watching his friend but, likely due to the homeschooling and different teachers, his technique is different to the rest of the students. Each wand movement had seemed a little off, not quite how they'd been taught, but also somehow more fluid. His face, too, betrayed nothing like some of these students do. Maybe it's bias (Draco would never admit it, if it was), but the few seconds it took Enoch to beat his opponent felt like watching a performance to the blond.

The rest, however, were exactly how he expects sixth year students to perform: awkwardly, miserably, and boringly.

Eventually, Snape calls his name. He's put up against a Hufflepuff that Draco barely knows but knows enough to recognise this is an unfair fight. Even out of practice, Draco still outmatches the girl facing him. The only way this could be any more unfair is if maybe he was put up against Potter or Weasel.

The girl, understandably, looks nervous as they adopt their starting stances. Snape calls the start and, in a second, Draco sends his first disarming spell. She manages to deflect this one but her attempt at an attack fails, causing her to fumble anxiously. This is all Draco needs to send another disarming spell and the girl's wand is flying from her hand. Keeping his expression bored, he turns his gaze towards Snape, doing his best to nonverbally ask, "_Is that good enough for you?_" In the corner of his eye, he can see the girl clumsily trying to retrieve her wand. Another student has to hand it to her, after it rolls away from her fingers. Draco almost feels bad.

_Almost_.

The second round soon begins with Blaise and Granger. Disappointly, Granger takes the victory and Draco can see the disappointment in his friend's eyes as he turns around. The blond makes sure to send a teasing smirk his way, lighthearted and sympathetic of the complete embarrassment that must come with losing to a muggleborn, but nonetheless teasing. He can't let his friend get away with that.

More duels come and more duels go, with less people taking almost as long as the first round with more evenly matched skills. Eventually, Draco's name is called again.

"You will duel... Desrosiers." Draco hopes his eyes don't grow as wide as he thinks they have. Snape seems to have changed his tune from the last round, now putting him up against someone closer to his skill, maybe even better. The look the professor gives him makes it clear that this is intentional. Likely payback or something.

Enoch's casual position makes Draco question his own, shifting uncomfortably as he waits to see if Enoch is actually going to move. He just stands there, looking oddly happy (though, on Enoch, it really shouldn't odd), with his hands by his side. He even twirls his wand between his fingers once, before Snape tells them to begin.

The first jinx comes from Enoch, taking the blond by surprise; the movement of his wand from at his hip to pointed at Draco comes so quickly he almost misses it. Fortunately, he manages to deflect it, but not before another spell is already sent towards him. Taking the defensive, he deflects spell after spell in Enoch's barrage of attacks. The brunet's wand twirls around him, face determined but otherwise impassive. There's a brief break in the attacks, letting Draco get a few of his own jinxes through. All of these are blocked, one even sent straight back to him. Then the barrage continues again.

Watching Enoch is one thing, duelling him is another. Being on the receiving end of his attacks is, quite frankly, terrifying; his expression and body language betrays absolutely none of his intention, not until the spell has already been cast. The spells are thrown at Draco far faster than he'd like, as he struggles to keep up with his defense. To make matters worse, the brunet is grinning as he attacks Draco—nothing malicious, clearly well-intended, just enjoying himself. When the pair meet eyes properly, not solely focusing on spellcasting, the younger's grin turns into a smirk and he raises his eyebrows in challenge. His tongue pokes through the corner of his mouth, a gesture that could be mistaken for focus but clearly isn't.

It's then that Draco realises the brunet isn't even trying. Not properly. He's just messing with him. This motivates the Slytherin to try a little harder himself, pushing back as much as he can. Enoch's grin only grows wider. Soon Draco can feel the pressure returning, Enoch matching his strength with ease. The blond feels himself breaking a figurative sweat as he tries to keep up.

If he'd been out of practice, this duel might not have been so stressful. But, with the year growing later and later, his focus on the tasks has caused all his subjects to suffer even more than they already had been. So, what he'd usually be quite adept at, he's now closer to average. And Enoch is definitely not average.

Enoch gives him a wink, a fleeting gesture that's enough to catch Draco off guard. He hesitates, unintentionally, oddly flustered. Then, the brunet flicks his wand and Draco feels something restrict him. Ropes twist around him, slithering down his body as his limbs are pulled tight against his body. The sudden change throws his balance off, knocking him to the ground. While he's still trying to recover from the sudden impact, his wand flies from his fingers. Now standing above him, Enoch picks it up easily. As the blond looks up at the brunet, completely tied up, pride and back hurt, he can't quite bring himself to be annoyed. Enoch gives him a smile before releasing him from his binds, still not uttering a word.

"Very good, Desrosiers. A N.E.W.T-level spell but given your previous education, I believe it counts for curriculum." Snape says nothing more, but he does give Draco a disappointed look. There's something more to the disappointment, pointed gaze that clearly takes the victory. Annoyed, Draco slinks back to his seat and glares at the rest of the duels.

Enoch loses his next one, in the final round, but he doesn't seem as interested in this one. His movements seem lazy, distracted, and when he does lose it doesn't seem genuine. He sits back down in his seat with a smile that somehow improves Draco's mood.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"How'd you do it?" Draco asks as they walk to Alchemy, Enoch close to his side. His ferret's head is poking out of his pocket, eyes blinking sleepily.

"Do what?"

"Beat me."

"Oh, the Incarcerous spell. Maman taught me." Enoch responds with a small shrug, as if it's no big deal. Draco's pride still stings a little, though he's unable to hold it against the brunet. His personal pride hurts but a section of pride he didn't know he'd held for Enoch has swelled. He can feel his respect growing. It's like, when he tripped him with the spell, Enoch somehow managed to knock something into place; he really has secured his place as one of Draco's closest friends, both in friendliness and feelings. Maybe even higher than a lot of friends—Draco's not sure, when he thinks too hard it starts to get confusing and tangled. "Maman was always my duelling partner. She wouldn't go easy on me so it was virtually impossible to beat her. I did once, when I learnt a spell in secret and she wasn't expecting me to use it. Then it became a part of the rules to try and trick her with things like that. Didn't happen again."

"You didn't follow the same curriculum as us?"

"Oh, no, we did. We had some guides to make sure I was learning everything you guys were. But Maman would throw in extra things while she taught, that she thought were useful and within my abilities. Sometimes she didn't even realise she was doing it."

"You're something else, Enoch."

"So are you, mon loup." The brunet responds, bumping shoulders with the blond. Draco just chuckles softly, shaking his head. In his stomach, something confused rolls around. He still can't wrap his head around the fact that everything is totally normal; Enoch has, for the most part, not even acknowledge him being a monster. It's like nothing ever happened. Well, _something_ happened. This nickname, somehow, happened. The stupid nickname that, when it flows from Enoch's lips in his odd French, sends the warmth into cartwheels in his stomach. Draco can't help but feel a wall broke down between them. But nothing friendship-shattering happened. It just feeds his paranoia. Soon, Enoch will realise, he's certain.

But for now, he'll just relish the warmth and enjoy the friendship while it lasts.


	28. Chapter 28

_Enoch,_

_I'm so proud of you. Finally, showing interest in someone other than Leonardo DiCaprio (don't get me wrong, I'd love to have him in the family, but it's been hard organising those set ups). Next break, you should invite this boy over for dinner so we can give him the old Desrosiers treatment. And Elijah, I have some non-magic things for him I think he'd like._

_But, I think if you're sure of what you're feeling, you should tell him how you feel. Just be honest with him. It's what I did with your mother and look what that got me - a scary family of magicians (I'm kidding, I love you and your magic. And your mother). To help make the talking easier, I got you some gifts to give him as well. Gifts are great to soften people up. _   
  


_——_   
  


_Your father fails to remember that when he confessed his feelings for me, he almost got hit by a car, crashed into a table and chairs, and yelled something about being soulmates from across the road. We hadn't even met at that point. But I do think he has a point, telling Draco your feelings is likely to be the best route. Even if it doesn't go well (if it doesn't, it's his loss), at least you'll have done it and not stressed too much over it._

_The gifts were your father's idea. He tried to get some more outlandish things but I stopped him at the bear and chocolates. Both were bought in normal stores but if Draco has issues with that, I've enchanted the bear to always smell of lavender so you can tell him it's magical._

_Good luck. Keep us updated._

_Bisous,_   
_Maman and Papa_   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It doesn't take long for news that one of the students—Ron, one of Harry Potter's friends—had been poisoned to spread around the school. Along with the tales of Harry's quick thinking and skills in Potions, which saved the poison from being lethal. It happened so suddenly that Enoch doesn't quite know what to make of it, can hardly believe that the Gryffindor really is up in the Hospital Wing recovering. But Enoch has heard several different variations of the story so he assumes it must have. Philip claims the only reliable one is that they'd been visiting Slughorn's and Harry saved him with a bezoar. It's good to know the truth but it does take some of the excitement from the stories being retold, depicting Harry as the brave hero, Slughorn as a villain, Ron as a bumbling buffoon, and everything in between.

And yet, despite the excitement of the event, life continues on as normal. Teachers expect concentration, his day is still full of classes, and his life is barely affected. Though, Enoch is hardly surprised.

The only thing that is different is the way Draco fills the classroom with vinegar, overpowering everything else. He barely acknowledges Enoch—or anyone else, for that matter. He just spends the class staring blankly at his desk, clearly drowning in the fear. The brunet makes a few attempts to distract him, to take the emotions away without actually replacing his emotions, but nothing works. Draco gives him a weak smile once but it doesn't reach his eyes and the vinegar doesn't change.

After class, the blond is one of the first to leave. Still packing away their things, Enoch can't follow him like he'd planned to. Not wanting to lose him—though he's sure it would be easy to track that vinegar—he sets Howie on him. The little ferret runs out of the classroom and Enoch can only hope he finds him. With far less care than it deserves, the Hufflepuff puts everything away and hurries after Draco.

The vinegar trail leads Enoch to one of the girls' bathrooms. He hesitates outside, because it's the _girls'_ bathroom, but he can tell Draco is somewhere inside here. Making sure no one's around, he quickly slips inside. Nerves begin to bundle inside of him as he walks slowly through the bathroom, questioning whether he should even be doing this, worried he might get caught or even upset Draco further. The vinegar has started to mix with brine, rather than overpowering it; Enoch can't even see the blond and his emotions are uncomfortably strong. Draco finally comes into view and he looks so small, sitting up against the wall, head curled up against his knees. Enoch can see a white tail poking through the dark robes. As one of his steps echoes through the bathroom, the blond's head snaps up and the vinegar washes over Enoch. The sudden blast of fear relaxes when he recognises the brunet but still doesn't go away.

"Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Enoch says softly, still worried he might have intruded. Rubbing the corner of his eye, Draco shakes his head. Enoch takes this as enough of an invitation to come closer, and sits down beside him. Howie is curled up in the blond's lap, licking and nibbling his hand. After letting some silence sit between them, uncomfortable, Enoch asks, "Are you okay?"

"I suppose you can feel everything." Draco's voice sounds clogged, all sharpness losing its edge. The brunet nods once.

"You taste scared. And sad."

"I have something I have to do. A task—like an assignment but it's not classwork. And if I don't do it properly, I'll be in trouble. A lot depends on it. But it's so _hard_." Enoch listens as the vague words spill from Draco's lips is a nervous rush, not understanding much. He understands the pressure, but that's it. The blond runs his fingers through his disheveled hair, only managing to mess it up further. "I have to do it but I'm not sure I can. It's not working."

"Am I able to help?"

Draco shakes his head, "You shouldn't know. I'm not supposed to– I've probably told you too much already. I'm sorry."

"Can I help without knowing anything then?" There's a small pause, a quiet second punctuated only by the drip-drop of something leaking.

"Can you just sit here with me?"

"Always." Enoch decides to be brave—or stupid, he doesn't know—for a moment and reaches out, wrapping his gloved hand around Draco's cold one. Even with the protection, he can feel the increase sensitivity to the emotions. But he does his best not to take anything away. He wants to, desperately, but already feels like he's pushing boundaries. But, the blond doesn't pull his hand away.

They sit there in silence until they've definitely missed their next class, until Draco seems to be a little calmer, at least enough to face the world outside the bathroom again.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  
  


Katie Bell is back.

First, Ron drinks the poison meant for Dumbledore and now Katie Bell is back. Standing in the Great Hall, tormenting Draco with the reminder of his failures. This year has been failure after failure, disappointed and worried parents conveying the words of a disappointed Lord. The calendar is passing quicker than Draco would like, his time running out, and he still hasn't succeeded. And Katie Bell is talking to Potter.

Their gaze turns towards the blond and fear rushes through him once again._ They know_, the paranoia feeds him, convinced that he's been caught. One way or another, he's doomed. They'll probably throw him in Azkaban but not even that would protect him from the punishment that comes with failing the Dark Lord. Draco chooses to not stick around and see if his paranoia is right, because if he does he's worried he might break down in front of all these students. He can already feel the anxiety, stress, paranoia bubbling up and swallowing him whole.

The secluded bathroom is his closest safe place. He hurries there, glancing behind him every time the footsteps get too loud. Eventually the halls clear, giving him the chance to slip into the bathroom unnoticed. Everything feels too tight on him, clothes restricting him, tie choking him. After loosening his tie, he pulls his jumper off in the hopes of giving himself more freedom. But the weight keeps hanging down on him, suffocating him. It's hard to get enough oxygen into his lungs, even though his breath is going so quick.

Everything is going so wrong. He's going to die. He doesn't want to die, but he's going to. It's him or Dumbledore, and Dumbledore is proving impossible to kill.

Against his will, a choked sob leaves his lips, followed by another and another until they start to sound like gasps for air. Tears are burning damp cheeks, stinging his eyes.

"I know what you did, Malfoy. You hexed her, didn't you?" A voice spits behind him, revealing he's not alone. In the reflection, Draco could almost pretend the dark hair belongs to Enoch. But the hatred in his voice betrays him—_Potter_.

_He knows. He knows. He knows._

Fear turns into rage as Draco is forced to look at that vile face, clearly looking down on the blond. As if he understands. He's just looking for another reason to vilify the blond, push him down further in his mind. He doesn't even care. With a small, goading nod of his head—what does he want? A confession? "Oh, Potter, you're so clever for figuring it out. So very heroic, cornering me in this bathroom like this."—the brunet waits expectantly. Draco, fear and anger whirling around inside of him, instead answers him with a hex. It misses, crashing into the wall as Potter dives out of the way. The Gryffindor retaliates and this time it's Draco's turn to duck. The hissing of a broken pipe fills the room, accompanied by the quiet grunts of both boy trying to beat the other, the crackle of magic, the fizz of spells missing.

Draco can't see Potter, and assumes the same goes for the other. At one end of the cubicles, he's crawls slowly onto the ground, peeking underneath the walls. Potter stares back at him at the other end and he doesn't hesitate in attacking. The spell is dodged but Draco can hear him running down the aisle. Planning on meeting him at the other end, getting there first, he's waiting by the time the brunet pokes his head out. He'd make Potter hurt like he hurt. Then he'd understand. Maybe then he'd wouldn't act so high and mighty. So much better than Draco.

But Potter is faster and attacks Draco with a spell he hasn't heard before. He shouts something before pain spreads across Draco's body, knocking him to the ground. Slivers of pain spread across his body, so numerous they start to burn into one large body of pain. His body is cold, water seeping into his clothes and skin, and hot. The blond can't help but whimper and choke, once again feeling like he can't breathe. He grabs helplessly at his wet shirt, as if that might somehow fix the pain. Somewhere in the corner of his vision, he can see Potter crouching over him. The pain must be making him delirious because he could almost swear the boy is panicking—sobbing, even. Surely not. Someone is screaming—not Potter, someone else. Draco doesn't think it's him, even though he certainly feels like screaming. He doesn't have the energy for that.

There's a loud noise, then the footsteps of someone storming into the room. Another face looms above him, pushing Potter out of the way. Snape. The pain starts to ease as he mutters something. It's not enough for a full recovery, but he no longer feels like he's dying. The older man has to help him to his feet, supporting him almost entirely. It's now Draco realises there's blood on his shirt, his hands, in the water, on Potter. Snape is talking to him. Something about scarring. Draco has enough of those.

Snape takes Draco to the Hospital Wing but most of it passes by in a blur, reality losing its focus. Words are spoken, few by the blond, and he's directed to a bed and treated. Eventually, exhaustion takes him—or maybe Madam Pomfrey slipped him something—and he falls into a dreamless sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

Just as soon as the news of Ron's poisoning seems to have died down, new gossip takes its place. Worse gossip.

"Philip says Malfoy's in the Hospital Wing. Harry Potter did something pretty serious." Elijah informs Enoch, who had been resting comfortably on his bed. At this news, he shoots up, concerned etched across his face. "Even Philip doesn't really know what, just that the Slytherins are saying he could've died. But y'know what Slytherins are like—probably just exaggerating to make it worse for Harry."

"Is Draco okay?"

Elijah shrugs, "He's well enough that Parkinson was about to visit him. She's the one who started all the rumours." That's enough for Enoch to jump out of bed, hurrying out of the dorms. But not before Elijah calls out, "What are you doing?"

"Going to see him." The older boy decides to let him go. Enoch wastes little more time waiting around and starts running towards the Hospital Wing. He gets some looks from students but he's usually past them before he has time to really register them. He has one focus—getting to Draco, getting answers—and he's not about to let anything get in his way.

Sure enough, he's let in when he arrives. Draco's lying on the other side of the room, book resting in his lap. He looks up at the sudden noise, raising his eyebrows in surprise when he sees Enoch. The brunet closes the gap between them and collapses beside the bed, his fitness suddenly reminding him that running all that way was a bad idea. Trying to catch his breath, he doesn't get to greet Draco as soon as he'd like.

"Did you run all the way here in your pyjamas?" Draco asks once the brunet seems to have recovered, an amused smirk resting against his lips. Enoch glances down at his clothes, remembering that he'd really settled in before he'd been disturbed. No wonder he'd been getting strange looks.

"Hey, to be fair, I just heard you'd almost died. I wasn't really thinking about my clothes." Enoch retorts as he takes the seat beside the bed. Draco shuffles over so he can look at him properly, the younger resting against the bed. "Did you really almost die or is it just rumours going crazy?"

"Apparently I did, I lost a lot of blood. Potter and I got into a fight and he attacked me with something—I don't know what—that cut me up." A small wave of chilli radiates from the blond as he frowns. It disappears the second he looks at Enoch, replaced with concern. "Sorry, he's just... _Potter_. I'd almost be impressed if he hadn't almost killed me. I never would have thought he'd have it in him to do something like that."

"I'm glad he didn't kill you." The worry fills Enoch again as he thinks of what might have happened, if something had gone more wrong that it already has. Draco wouldn't be sitting in this bed. A different kind of news would be travelling around the school.

"Me too. It would have been awful if he had." The blond shifts, placing the book down beside him. "I got a cool scar from it, though."

"Really?" Draco nods, now sitting up completely. He lifts his shirt up enough to reveal the scar travelling across lower stomach, just under his belly button. It looks like someone tried to slice his stomach open, which would be cool if the thought wasn't so terrifying.

"Dittany got most of it but I guess this was just the worst of it." The shirt drops back down, hiding the scar, but Enoch can still see the images in his head, can imagine all the blood. The what if's float around in his head. Enoch doesn't even realise he's zoned out until he feels a hand knock his shoulder. "I don't know if you're doing it intentionally or not, but I can sense your emotions right now."

"But I'm not even touching you..."

The blond shrugs, "It's not the same as when there's contact, but I have a sense that you're unhappy. I mean, your face gives that away, but I can feel something inside that feels very much like 'Enoch is unhappy'. I don't know. Maybe you're improving without even realising."

"That doesn't seem like much of an improvement, I can't even control it."

"That's why you practice and learn how to control it." Draco shakes his head softly, settling back into his bed. There's a soft, amused smile flitting across his lips. "For someone so good at spells, you're not the brightest."

"Hey! I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not stupid. I just wouldn't call you smart either." Enoch would try arguing further but he doesn't think there's any point. Draco still has that teasing smirk on his lips, and the brunet doesn't sense any ill-will from him. He just gives him a gentle shove on the shoulder, unable to stop a grin from taking his own lips as well. "You should run back to your dorm before the halls start filling up and everyone sees you in those pyjamas. They look so cheap."

"They aren't... But you're right, probably shouldn't get caught dressed like this." The blond nods, still smiling. Enoch pushes himself to his feet, stretching slowly, looking around. He realises, he doesn't really want to leave just yet. But, reluctantly, he says his goodbyes and hurries back to the dorms before anyone catches him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Draco's near-death experience makes him feel special, as his friends keep making frequent visits to keep him updated on things. Pansy came in to inform him on the progression of rumours, that Potter is thoroughly vilified amongst the Slytherins and even some of the other houses; Blaise has visited under claims of having study that needs to be done or notes he needs to deliver, and sat there for the entire visit without even the slightest mention of classwork. Luckily Theodore, who's visiting currently, has brought actual classwork he's missed as well as some premade essays.

"I don't know what I'd do without you." Draco thanks him when the essays are placed on his bed, causing the older boy to grin.

"Fail your classes, that's for certain. But you should seriously get that job done, so I haven't wasted all my ink on a dead man." While the intentions are mostly joking, concern etched behind them, Draco can't help but flinch at the reminder. He's been sneaking out nightly to visit the cabinet, see if any progress has been made. The deadline continues to loom in front of him, as well as the threat.

"I'm working on it." He grumbles, only getting a nod in return. Theodore lazes casually in the chair, pushing against one of the legs of the bed, arms crossed over his chest. Their conversation is interrupted by the creaking of the door, the entrance of someone. Both look over at the sound and there stands Enoch, looking surprised to see them and rather tense. Almost instinctively, his hand goes to the door as if he's about to run, but Theodore gets to his feet before he can make any move.

"I'll give you two some space." He says with a smirk Draco doesn't understand. The older Slytherin waves and wanders off, muttering something to Enoch on his way past. Then it's just the pair, and Enoch still hasn't moved.

"You know I'm not contagious, right?" The brunet nods jerkily and starts to move away from the door. Each gesture looks stiff, forced. "What did Theo say to you?"

"'_He's all yours_'," Enoch repeats. He finally reaches the bed, collapsing into the chair beside the bed. Something whirls in Draco's stomach and he feels the faint edge of nerves--but not his nerves, Enoch's nerves. He almost says something, but the brunet interrupts him by rummaging around his pockets. "I brought you something. Like a get well soon gift, I guess. Sorta. I dunno."

"What is it?" After a mild struggle, Enoch manages to retrieve a bar of chocolate from his pockets. As he tries to pass it to Draco, he fumbles and almost drops it on the floor. It lands on the edge of the bed, giving the blond time to catch it. He turns the bar in his hands, not recognising the purple label.

"It's just plain chocolate. I don't know how you feel about chocolate but... y'know, it's chocolate. You don't have to eat it." Feeling bad for the pressure he seems to be unintentionally placing on the boy, Draco opens the wrapper and breaks off a piece with no questions. He eats it carefully, surprised it tastes like normal chocolate despite his suspicions it might be muggle-made. He tries offering some to the younger, but he declines. The younger is still messing around with his pockets, struggling with something else.

Practically fighting with the pocket, he manages to pull out a small brown bear. Free from its prison, it flops around wildly, before hanging limply from the Hufflepuff's hand. It's dressed in a cream sweater, one that looks like it might be handmade, and has a large red heart decorating the front. Enoch essentially throws this at him, soft toy hugging his face as it lands. It smells like lavender.

"It's... Ignore the heart... It's magic, smells like lavender." The brunet spits out with a small nod to himself. For a second, he seems to forget Draco is there, silently congratulating himself on something. Draco just watches, squeezing the bear between his fingers, thoroughly confused. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something important."

"What is it?" Draco asks slowly, nervous. He's not sure if it's Enoch's nerves feeding into his own, or the odd manner in which he's acting.

"So, recently, I realised that when I'm hanging out with you, I feel all warm inside. Like all the other emotions but this time it's me. I've never really experienced it before, except maybe, like, Leonardo DiCaprio. But even that was different because, y'know, you're you and he's always playing different characters. When he was Romeo, oh man, but that's not really relevant. Anyway, Maman and Papa said I should talk about it and, oh! Don't forget the heart, on the bear, that was a part of it. They sent those, to help." Words spew past Enoch's lips but Draco feels like he's speaking another language. He doesn't understand what he's being told, only that he probably should understand them. For a few seconds, they stare at each one, one blank, the other expectant.

"What are you talking about?" Draco asks as gently as he can manage, though is unable to keep the confusion from his voice. The brunet's hands clench against the sheet underneath Draco as he shuffles in his seat.

"I like you. And I don't want to make things weird but I think it has to be said before it gets worse. If you don't like me, that's okay, but I just need it to be out there. If it's out there and you don't, I can deal with it before it gets too deep, y'know." _Ah_. Draco tries to swallow but his mouth is suddenly dry. He goes to open his mouth, to say something, and realises he doesn't know what he wants to say. His instant reaction, surprisingly, isn't to turn Enoch down. His whole body seems to stop him from doing that.

Still trying to get his mouth to cooperate, his mind suddenly allows itself to go wild. What would it be like if it _didn't_ reject Enoch? Something lurches in Draco's chest, similarly to the way it had back before the Yule Ball with Pansy, only worse. _Oh_. Merlin, Theodore might have been onto something.

Draco tries to speak once more but his mouth is still too dry and something isn't connecting in his brain. No words come out and he just looks like a drowning fish.

Imagine that: being able to do the things a boyfriend does with Enoch. Being able to hold hands with him, hug him, give him gifts. Draco's heart does a cartwheel again.

Some moisture returns to his mouth and he manages to say, "I-It... I wouldn't be against it getting deep." The second those words leave his lips, regret fills him. Not, he realises, because of the fact he hasn't turned Enoch down yet, but because of all the ways to do the opposite, that was quite embarrassing and ineloquent. His parents have taught him better than this.

This even seems to take the brunet off guard, as he pauses, mouth wide open. The shocked expression then turns into a wide smile. Draco feels a warmth flood through him and he understands what the other meant now.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am." The younger says, though his voice and demeanor betrays exactly what his words can't convey. "Unless... You're not teasing me, are you?"

"I'd hope you could tell the difference between my teasing and not. No, I'm... I'm confused, it's not something I've thought much about before now, but I'm... I'm not against it, which surprises me. But also doesn't."

The brunet laughs loudly, "Good to know I'm not the only one so confused."

"So... what happens now?" The younger shrugs. A beat of awkward silence hangs between them.

"Oh, I know!" Draco watches curiously as Enoch gestures for him to come close. Doing as he's bid, he leans over his bed just a little, frowning at the brunet. Quicker than Draco can react, Enoch has leant in, pressed his lips against the blond's in a peck, and pulled away. For a second, all Draco can smell is roses. The smallest action sends his heart racing. "There. Anyway, I have to go. I promised I'd meet Gee before dinner."

As Draco spends the rest of the evening alone, accompanied only by the small teddy he can't help but keep playing with, he can't help but wonder what he's gotten himself into.


	30. Chapter 30

As Draco waits for Madam Pomfrey to go to bed, lying wide awake, he eats the rest of the chocolate. The bear lies on his stomach, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. The only two reminders that anything remotely eventful happened earlier that day. Otherwise, Draco might have just brushed off his memories as strange, but pleasant dreams. But no, it happened.

He's down to the crumbs of the chocolate by the time Pomfrey disappears, perhaps having eaten them too fast out of nerves. He carefully folds the empty wrapper up—wasting time—before he slips out of bed. Now it's his turn to travel through the halls in his pyjamas, slinking in the shadows, avoiding anyone else that might be out of bed. In the silence of the evening, his heart thumps loudly in his ears—every breath, every nervous swallow, every step sounds too loud. He's almost certain someone is going to catch him, scold him and ask him what he's doing out of bed and out of the Hospital Wing. He's not even sure what he'll tell them. Going for a nighttime stroll?

The Room of Requirement feels both safe and dangerous. Once inside, he no longer sneaks around. His movements turn purposeful, long strides towards the cabinet he has hidden inside the messy room. Still, his breath nor his heartbeat has calmed down, both at speeds that only feed his nerves. Each careful stride is filled trembles, barely suppressed. As his hand hovers over the handle, he can't control the shaking. Taking one deep breath, he rips the bandaid off and pulls the door open.

A bird, tweeting happily about its newfound freedom, flies out above his head. The trembles take over his body and a shaky sob escapes his lips. The breath catches in his throat, turning the next sob painfully choked. He slowly lowers himself to his knees in front of the open cabinet, now empty except for a single feather. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the bird chirping. It's alive. Alive and well despite it's trip to Borgins and Burkes. _It worked_.

Another sob leaves his body and he punches the door of the cabinet, desperate for an outlet. The door just creaks, swinging quickly back into his fist, and all he's left with is a sore fist that just seems to make things worse. The bird chirps, tormenting him. _It worked_.

He was going to have to kill Dumbledore.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A day. That's all Draco has. One day before the Death Eaters storm Hogwarts and he has to kill Dumbledore. Maybe he could run away—but where would he run to? He doesn't know anything but the wizarding world and that wouldn't be safe for him. Nowhere would be safe for him if he ran away. No, he can't run. If he ran, they'd kill his family instead. They might even kill Enoch, if they figured out how close they were.

The younger Hufflepuff stops by after classes, so unknowing and carefree. Draco realises what he's done the second Enoch walks through the door. He's doomed him. If the Dark Lord was to find out about their newfound relationship, it'd be used against Draco. Even without the Dark Lord, the second Enoch realises just what kind of monster Draco is—that'll probably break his heart. All Draco wants to do is confess, apologise for the actions he's about to commit, but he can't. That'd also doom Enoch. The less he knows, the better.

"Are you okay?" Enoch asks after sitting in silence for a few moments. Draco realises he hasn't been talking, has instead been fixating on his thoughts, and nods his head unconvincingly. He didn't get any sleep last night, exhaustion hitting him hard—even Madam Pomfrey didn't believe him when he told her she was fine. Enoch looks equal unconvinced, frowning softly at him. Draco doesn't deserve the concern that rests in his eyes. He drops his own gaze to his hands, fingers interlocked tightly with one another. "Classes were pretty boring today. You didn't miss out on much. I did manage to do the Alchemy practical fine by myself, so I think I'm getting better."

"That's good. You'd hope you'd be getting better." Enoch's gloved hand rests atop Draco's, warm against the cold. His fingers break apart his own, replacing the painful twisting with a comfortable grip. The blond stares at them for a few seconds before he looks up at Enoch. The brunet just smiles at him. "I'm glad you came this year. And I'm glad you studied Alchemy and partnered with me, even if I am a prick. Thank you."

"_Were_ a prick, you're less of one now. I was right, by the way—you are nicer than you like to pretend." _Just you wait..._

Enoch doesn't say much more for the rest of the visit. He just sits there, holding Draco's hand, providing a comforting weight. The blond clings to it, knowing it's likely the last time he'll be this close to the younger. His presence is all that keeps Draco from sinking into a panic as he counts down each second of each minute of each hour until the time has come.

But, eventually, even Enoch has to go. With some reluctance, the younger seems to detach his hand from Draco's. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out that familiar tray of lemon candy, and places it on the Slytherin boy's lap.

"In case you need it while you're here. I've got a full one back at the dorms." He says with a smile. It's a shaky smile, as if even he knows something's wrong. He probably does, being Enoch.

Draco just hopes he doesn't know what.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**. . .**   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Before going to open the cabinet, Draco stops by his dorm to change from his pyjamas. He has time. The others are woken by his movements, watching him with bleary eyes and tired scowls. He ignores them, focusing instead on his reflection. A pale face, gaunt and shadowed, stares back at him with that clear glimmer of fear in his eyes. Shaky hands make slow work of his buttons, until he just uses a spell to button them up. Then he takes one last look at his reflection, steels his expression until all he sees is an exhausted but determined boy, and leaves the room.

The Slytherin boy that walks down the halls betrays none of the panic rolling around inside of him like a thundering storm. A sense of dread still hangs in the air, in the ringing silence, the buzzing anticipation, the real storm approaching outside. His footsteps aren't muffled like every other visit, the cold tap of expensive shoes against the stone floor.

He loses control of the panic as he stands in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, the cloth hiding it sprawled across the floor. The ticking of the door seems in beat with his rapid heartbeat that he can still hear thudding in his ears. His bottom lip quivers uncontrollably as the doors open slowly, shadows rolling out. He doesn't wait for the others to arrive, not wanting to face them, but he can hear them as he leaves the room.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Each step up the tower feels like an eternity and a second simultaneously. His legs feel heavy, unwilling to get closer to Dumbledore, forced along by his determination and fear of death. The old man is talking to someone as he approaches and the thought of another being there almost causes Draco to run away. But the door has already slammed behind him and his foosteps aren't particularly quiet, so they likely already know he's there. By the time he reaches the top, Dumbledore is alone.

Draco keeps his wand focused on Dumbledore, watching for any sudden movement. He's already outranked in experience and skill, but he has the element of surprise behind him. Maybe through sheer luck, he can kill the old man.

"Good evening, Draco." The headmaster greets him as if it were any other, normal evening, as if he hasn't just been cornered in the Astronomy Tower. Draco starts circling around the structure separating them, but Dumbledore starts moving as well.

"Who else is here? I heard you talking." Draco ignores him, wand shaking in his hand. The wind blowing around the open space sinks into the blond's bones, turning his exposed skin numb. A rainless storm rages on out in the night sky.

"I sometimes like to talk to myself. I find it helps clear my thoughts a great deal. Have you been whispering to yourself, Draco?" The Slytherin pauses, unable to hide the confusion from his face. A wand directed at him threateningly, about to die, and the old man still has time to talk riddles. "Or are you acting alone?"

"No, others are here. I got Death Eaters into the school, and you didn't even notice."

"Very good." Dumbledore is too calm, the praise sounds too genuine. Draco's confusion only worsens. "But, you seem to be alone now. Where are they all, Draco?"

"They're fighting your lot." Draco is reminded of the body he had to step over to get here. The body he almost tripped over, going unnoticed as it lay in the dark shadows. He's not sure if he hopes it one of Dumbledore's or the Death Eaters. "I went on ahead. I-I have a job to do."

"Well, by all means, don't let me get in the road of your job. You had best get on with it, my dear boy." The old man's voice is soft when he speaks, not scared, oddly compassionate. There's even a smile on his face. The opportunity is there, but Draco is frozen. "Draco, you are no killer."

"How do you know what I am?" Resentment replaces the confusion in a great flare. Yet another person who doesn't believe he can do it. Even the person who set him up to this didn't think him capable. Why must everyone think he's so weak? Surely by now he's proven himself. He's here, isn't he? "You don't know what I am, what I can do. You don't know what I've done!"

"Like cursing Katie Bell in the hopes that she might give me a cursed necklace in return? Or poisoning a bottle of mead in the hopes that that too might be sent to me? Forgive me, Draco, but they have really been feeble attempts. I cannot help but feel your heart isn't really in it..."

"It is!" Draco spits unconvincingly. Even the old man doesn't seem to believe him.

There's a noise—a distant yell, the scuffle of fighting—and the fear fills him again. It could be so easy, alone here with Dumbledore, to forget who he has set loose in the school. _Killers_. Dumbledore's men are likely fighting, likely the ones struggling against the Death Eaters, but that's not to say the students haven't left their dorms out of curiosity either. What if Enoch were to leave and get caught in all this mess? The boy has the worst sense of self-preservation. What if that was his yell?

"Somebody is putting up a good fight." The older man comments, but Draco can't draw his attention away from the sounds of battle. "But, I must know, how did you manage to introduce Death Eaters into my school. I must admit, I thought it was impossible."

There's a beat, Draco can't find the words to answer, stuck in paralysing fear as he listens to the fighting.

"Perhaps, you ought to get on with your job. You must realise, you aren't the only one who has back-up tonight. Members of the Order of the Phoenix are likely fighting your Death Eaters now. What if they were to beat your back-up?" The blond's head snaps back towards Dumbledore's at the reminder of his task. All he can do is stare at him, his stomach rolling in protest. "I shall even make it easy for you."

As Dumbledore reaches for his wand, Draco's reflexes kick in and he disarms him before he even has a chance to utter a spell. And yet, as the wand flies out of the old man's hands, the lack of alarm on his face makes Draco think this is all as he intended.

"Very good, very good." He praises, like a teacher assessing Draco's dueling abilities. Despite the wand being aimed at his heart, unarmed, he still seems unfazed. As if sensing the question resting behind Draco's lips, he continues, "I don't think you will kill me, Draco. It's not as easy as you might think. But, as we wait for your friends, tell me... How did you smuggle them in here?"

"I fixed the Vanishing Cabinet, created a passage. The one Montague got lost in." Comprehension flashes across the old man's face, followed by a slight groan.

"Very clever. It has a sister, I take it?"

"At Borgin and Burke. No one figured it out, except me. I realised if it was fixed, there was a way into Hogwarts."

"So that was how the Death Eaters were able to slip in. A very clever plan, indeed. Right under my own nose, too." The first bit of praise Draco has received while doing this job, and it comes from the man he's supposed to kill. Still, he can't fight the pride that blossoms in his chest, the way it sates the need for approval he hadn't realised he had.

"Yeah, it was!"

"Regardless of who is winning, our time grows short." Dumbledore's voice takes on a somber tone as he clasps his hands in front of him. Throating burning, mouth dry, Draco feels his stomach roll around fearfully again. He licks his lips, but it does nothing. "Let us discuss your options, Draco."

"Options? I don't have any options!" Draco responds, louder than he meant. His wand shakes in his hand still. "I'm the one with the wand. I have to kill you."

"Draco, years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please, let me help you."

"I don't want your help!" Draco spits, though his words don't ring true. A lump in his throat makes it hard to talk, pain filling every syllable. "Don't you understand? I don't have a choice. I've _got_ to do this. I _have _to kill you. Or he'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family, anyone that I care about!"

"Draco, make the right choice. You haven't hurt anyone yet, I can help you. We will hide you, better than you can even imagine. Order members will collect your mother tonight, your father is safe in Azkaban but we can protect him too. Even Enoch Desrosiers and his family, if you're concerned about your attachment to him..." Draco's breath catches in his throat, feeling caught, reminded of the brunet he's desperately trying not to think about. His wand wavers in the air. "We will protect them, Draco. Just come over to the right side. Draco, you're not a killer..."

Draco can't speak. He knows, if he does speak, he'll be unable to stop himself from accepting such promises of safety and protection. But the old man is wrong. The promises are nothing but lies—nothing will protect him from the fury of the Dark Lord should he fail and turncoat.

Footsteps make the choice for him, thundering up the stairs. His Aunt leading the pack, Death Eaters burst into the room. Startled, Draco adjusts his grip on his wand, hoping he looks more confident than he is. At the sight of Dumbledore, unarmed, pleasure brightens Bellatrix's face. She grins wickedly as she greets him, stepping closer to the blond. She whispers praise in his ear but it doesn't feel the same as Dumbledore's. It makes him feel sick.

"Good evening, Bellatrix." Dumbledore says in that same conversational tone, despite now being far outnumbered. "I believe some introductions are required."

"Introductions? Think these jokes'll save you?" One of the other Death Eaters—Alecto Carrow—sneers as she moves further into the room.

"No, not jokes. These are manners."

"Would love to, Albus, but we have a bit of a tight schedule." Bellatrix hisses before turning to her nephew. "Do it."

Her order is echoed across the room, as the large man thundering into the room barks, "Do it, or I'll do it for you."

Draco's attention snaps towards the great, horrifying werewolf leering back at him with dirty pointed teeth. His heart lurches in his throat and his arm starts to burn as if in memory. All he can see is Fenrir hovering over him, teeth sinking into his forearm, laughing manically as the boy screams and squirms.

"Is that you, Fenrir?" Dumbledore asks and Draco looks back to him, desperate to look anywhere but at the man who turned him into a werewolf.

"Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?" Fenrir responds, voice too close for Draco's comfort. "You know how I love kids. Wouldn't miss this for the world."

"I can't deny, I am a little shocked that Draco invited you, of all people–"

"I didn't. I didn't know he'd be here." Draco says too quickly. Bellatrix's hands hover over Draco's shoulders, voice still whispering in his ear, as she directs the topic back to the task at hand.

"Do it, Draco. This is your moment."

"Go on, Draco."

"Kill the old man. Doesn't look long for this world anyway."

"Doesn't have the stomach. Just like his father."

"Come on, Draco. Now!" The voices all surround Draco, urging him onwards. But all he can see is Dumbledore watching him, the promise still resting unspoken between them, a sympathetic glimmer in his eye. Compassion is etched all across his weak face, the suggestion that no matter what Draco chooses, he doesn't blame him. But Draco is near tears and he's not even sure he'd be able to aim properly with his hand trembling uncontrollably. He feels as if he's about to vomit, for real this time.

"No." A voice breaks through the noise, silencing all those around him. Draco recognises the voice without having to turn around, knows Snape has joined the group. It brings him little comfort, only more terror.

"Severus." Dumbledore's voice is soft, pleading. It's the weakest he's seemed this entire evening, as he begs the dark man watching him. Snape steps forward, pushing Draco out of the way, moving through the throng of Death Eaters easily. "Please..."

There's barely a second of hesitation as Snape raises his wand, pointed at Dumbledore, answering the older man with, "Advada Kedavra!"

Draco watches as the green light bursts from his wand and hits Dumbledore cleaning in his chest. He watches as the old man flies into the air, as his headmaster is knocked out of the building. He stares in horror at the space where Dumbledore once was, unable to believe he's now dead.

Draco feels disconnected as his collar is grabbed and Snape urges him to move, practically dragging him through the door. His legs barely cooperate as he feels hands push his back, keeping him moving. Destructive celebration follows them through the Great Hall as the cutlery neatly set out on the table is kicked, as the windows are shattered, candles blown out. It followed them through the hallways and out into the courtyard, as Hagrid's hut and the neighbouring trees are set alight. Draco watches in horror as his home is turned into chaos with wicked laughter.

A spell shoots past them, followed by the anguished, angered cry, "Snape, he trusted you!"

Draco turns to see Potter chasing them. Of course, Potter is chasing them. Why must he be such a Gryffindor? This isn't the time to play hero, to chase after the Death Eaters that just killed one of the strongest men Draco can think of. Draco prays, in the adrenaline of this night's events, none of the Death Eaters forget who Potter is promised to.

"Go on. Run, Draco." Snape orders, giving Draco another shove to get his legs moving. It takes little more encouragement to continue running towards the gates. He starts running, away from the death, away from the destruction, away from Potter and his shouts of coward. While they're not intended for him, they still echo around his head tormentingly. He keeps running until he can no longer hear them, until he's past the grounds and the safety of Hogwarts. If it even is safe anymore.

Then, along with the other Death Eaters that had kept moving, he Disapparates into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this book, though it is only book 1 of 2 so, don't despair, the story itself isn't over yet :D
> 
> The sequel is 'Savoir' and I'll figure out how to link it up to this story, once it's up


End file.
